Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 2, February 1964

The Lure by Wenzell Brown

A law officer, in more ways than one, is kin to the fisherman, whether the analogy be drawn in terms of line, lure or nets. Herein, we must fish in troubled waters before we complete our catch.

Some men was just plum born to be bachelors. Take Dave Garner for instance. In all the years I been sheriff in these parts, I never known a more likeable, easy-goin’ feller. He run the sports-store in Cripple’s Bend, caterin’ to the city folks as flock around in the huntin’ and fishin’ season.

Dave never took to work serious-like. He always had time to drop around to the house for a game o’ checkers in the evening. And plenty a times when the trout was runnin’, he’d just up and leave the shop for three, four days at a stretch, leavin’ Little Kenny Stuart, his assistant, in charge.

Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t against marryin’. Me and Maw’s hit it off fine for nigh on to thirty years and she’d skin the hide off me if I claimed different. I’m just a-sayin’ that Dave warn’t the marryin’ kind. So it was pretty much of a shock when he came back from a trip upstate with a bride. A real doll.

Even Maw had to admit Dave had made a mistake. She says real tart-like, “Dave picked hisself the wrong woman. Tonette’s like one o’ them fancy lures Dave’s always messin’ around with. All bright and shiny on the outside but with a barb underneath.”

I knew what Maw was talkin’ about right enough. Me and Dave was always arguin’ how to set about catchin’ trout. Me, I say an earthworm wrigglin’ on a hook is just about the best bait there is. But Dave wouldn’t have nothin’ that simple. Ever since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, Dave was strictly a fly fisherman. He made his own lures, imitatin’ insects and such and he wouldn’t use nothin’ else. What’s more, he had a display board of ’em in the back of his shop. Whenever he sold one of his hand-made lures to the city folk it made him proud as all get-out.

Tonette Garner was about the prettiest woman as ever come to live in Cripple’s Bend. Hair the color of horse chestnuts and skin with a fine rich bloom to it, she was on the plumpish side but that’s the way men around here like their women. Tonette come from St. Onge up on the border. Good French-Canadian stock and there ain’t no gettin’ around that.

First off it looked like Dave and Tonette was goin’ to make a go of it. They lived in an old farmhouse on the edge of town. The place was pretty rundown, but they worked miracles sprucin’ it up until it looked right nice.

Ain’t much social life in a town the size o’ Cripple’s Bend. A church supper on Tuesday night and mebbe a dance at the Fireman’s Hall come Saturday. That’s about it. Dave was never much of a hand for dancin’ but he’d bring Tonette along and watch from the sidelines. She never had to worry none about partners, except how to make ’em wait their turn.

Mert Simon, who was a widower and president of the local bank, could hardly keep his eyes off her. Some say as Mert was the richest man in town and the meanest too but I wouldn’t want to comment on that. Then there was Little Kenny Stuart followin’ her around like a Spaniel pup, his tongue practically hangin’ out.

I reckon Tonette didn’t give a hang for fishin’ but she was a good sport. When Dave would head out for the trout streams up country, she’d tag along too, even though it meant campin’ out in a pup tent and comin’ back with her face all swole up with skeeter bites and her arms scratched with briers.

There warn’t no real trouble ’til Nick Gulden showed up in Cripple’s Bend. Nick was sellin’ farm machinery and such out of Portland and it looked like he was doin’ right good at it. He owned a snappy new roadster and was always dressed fit to kill. Me, I couldn’t stomach Nick Gulden with his curly black hair and his movie hero profile, but the ladies went for him in a big way. One thing I’ll have to admit about Nick, he was the best dancer to ever put in an appearance at Fireman’s Hall. Right off the bat he and Tonette teamed up together. When they went on the floor, the other couples would drop out and stand around watchin’ and clappin’.

It warn’t long afore Dave got his fill of Nick Gulden. They met in the parkin’ lot one night and passed some hot words that ended up with them tradin’ a few punches. Dave was big but he was slow and, like I said, he was naturally easy-goin’. Nick was shifty on his feet and he was givin’ better than he was takin’. Course it was my job as sheriff to break things up but I might not have been so quick about it if Dave had been putting up a better show. I wouldn’t have minded seein’ Nick Gulden scootin’ away with his tail between his legs.

Tonette was burned up with Dave, claimin’ as how he started the ruckus. She flounces off and gets into Nick Gulden’s car. There ain’t no way for me to stop ’em from drivin’ off except by main force.

After that the marriage just collapses. Susie Chipman who lives down the road a piece from the Garner farm tells me Dave and Tonette are goin’ at it hammer and tongs all the time.

A couple of months pass and Dave moves out and rents a room at Cripple’s Inn. Tonette files suit for divorce on grounds of desertion and Dave don’t contest. He gives her the farm and a cash settlement and they split up real friendly like. Dave even drops around to the farmhouse off and on to do odd jobs too heavy for Tonette to handle.

He steers clear of the farm after nightfall though and perhaps it’s just as well because, accordin’ to Susie Chipman, Tonette ain’t lackin’ male company after dark. Seems like most every night a car’s parked in her driveway. Weekends it’s mostly Nick Gulden’s flashy roadster. Other times it’s a big black sedan and it ain’t hard for Susie to reckon out who’s callin’, seein’ as Mert Simon owns the only one in town. Now and then there’s a third car, a battered old model, and it nigh drives Susie crazy tryin’ to find out who’s up there then. Susie ain’t one to give up easy. She sneaks out one night and jots down the number. Seems it belongs to Little Kenny Stuart’s sister over in Barrow and that once in a while she lends him the use of it.

That’s the way things was stand-in’ when Tonette’s younger sister, Cecile, decides to get married. Tonette’s got her faults but she’s real punctilious-like about family matters and she’s dead set to attend the weddin’. Trouble is there ain’t no train or bus service up to St. Onge, less you want to change about a half dozen times. Tonette ain’t got a car and wouldn’t know how to drive it if she had one.

Comes Friday morning before the weddin’ and Tonette walks into Dave’s sports shop brassy as you please. Dave’s in back o’ the shop workin’ on his lures like he does so often.

Tonette flounces past Kenny Stuart and faces Dave, tellin’ him how she’s got to get up to St. Onge and askin’ him to drive her there.

“Nope,” says Dave. “I got me a fishin’ trip all planned for the weekend. Sorry, Tonette, but that’s the way it stands.”

Tonette flares up, her voice risin’ shrill and mean. “You and your trout! You always cared more about fishin’ than me. But I don’t need to worry. There’s plenty of others will be glad to drive me to St. Onge. All I have to do is ask.”

Dave shrugs. “You just do that, Tonette, and don’t come around botherin’ me no more.”

Tonette blasts off at him but he don’t so much as blink an eye, so she stamps out o’ the store.

Friday, around noon, Dave sets off on his fishin’ trip. It’s wild country up where he’s goin’ and he don’t like to take his car and leave it on the roadside overnight. Instead, he takes the bus and cuts across country on foot to reach the trout streams. That way he can catch the bus back a couple days later.

Dave gets Kenny Stuart to drive him to the bus station and tells him to park the Olds at the rear of the store until he gets back. Kenny hangs around the bus stop and waves goodbye to Dave before headin’ back for the store.

That night, as soon as it gets dark, Susie Chipman sees the headlights of a car drivin’ up in front of the Garner farmhouse. But instead of parkin’ in the drive as usual, it goes right up to the front door where a big chestnut tree casts a shadow over it. Pretty soon the lights in the house go off. Susie, standin’ at her window, catches a glimpse of Tonette silhouetted in the glare of the headlights, carryin’ a suitcase. The door slams, the motor roars and the car takes off like greased lightning. Susie don’t have the slightest idea what kind it is and that burns her up because, while she claims she’s not nosey, she does like to know what’s goin’ on.

Happens I’m down at the crossroads when Dave jumps off the bus on Sunday afternoon. He grins like a tomcat when he shows me the six fat trout in his wicker basket. They’re beauties too. Makes my mouth water just to look at ’em.

He claps me on the shoulder and says, “How about you and Clara sharin’ ’em with me?”

“Sure,” I says. “You take ’em down to Maw and she’ll clean and gut ’em for you.”

So that’s the way it was. Dave comes around to the house about six o’clock and the three of us have supper. And those trout was mighty tasty fare, I don’t mind tellin’ you.

Afterward we set up the checker board and me and Dave have a game or two. We’re still playin’ when the telephone rings. It’s Tonette’s mother, Mrs. Catteau, from St. Onge. She’s worried because Tonette ain’t showed up for the weddin’. She can’t raise nobody at the farm and she can’t imagine what’s happened.

I tell Dave and he seems pretty upset. “It ain’t like Tonette to miss a weddin’,” he says. “’Specially not Cecile’s, seein’ as how she and Tonette was so close.”

We decided to go out to the farm and look around. ’Tain’t long afore Susie Chipman joins us and tells us her story. Dave looks over Tonette’s clothes and says as how he thinks there’s quite a few missin’ but he can’t rightly say what she took.

Susie pipes up and says, “Maybe she’s eloped.” Then she claps her palm over her mouth and looks at Dave sort of guiltylike.

But Dave just says, “That’s her privilege if she wants to. I ain’t got no strings tied to her no more.”

For the next few weeks there ain’t much I can do, even though Mrs. Catteau’s pesterin’ the pants off me for word of her daughter, and hollerin’ to high heaven about foul play. Nick Gulden ain’t showed up in Cripple’s Bend since Tonette’s disappeared. I got my own ideas about him and Tonette but I don’t see no percentage in shootin’ off my mouth without any proof.

Mert Simon’s still around and I drop over to the bank to have a few words with him. He claims Tonette tried to enveigle him into takin’ her to St. Onge but he wasn’t havin’ none of it. He was leery of gettin’ too involved with her. Reckoned if he didn’t shy clear of her, she’d be leadin’ him up to the altar. That wasn’t what he had in mind.

Then just as I was gettin’ downright worried about Tonette, her mother calls up all bright and cheery. She’s got a letter from Tonette postmarked in Portland, tellin’ about how she’s got married again but not statin’ her new husband’s name. Not that I need more than one guess. Who else could it be but Nick Gulden, the dancin’ salesman?

Just to be on the safe side I asked Mrs. Catteau if she recognizes Tonette’s writing.

“Of course,” she says. “Nobody else writes with all those flourishes and curly-cues.”

I ask her to send the letter along to me just to make things real tidy. When it comes, I show it to Dave.

“Looks like her handwritin’ to me,” he says. “Though I wouldn’t swear to it. That’s her stationery though, with the violets on top. It’s some I give her for her birthday last year.”

Well, there ain’t no law against a grass widder tryin’ her luck a second time and I got no call to stick my nose into Tonette’s business without bein’ asked. Then toward the end of August everything changes. It starts one morning when Tommy Raines and Joey Smith come rushin’ into my office. They’re a pair of twelve year olds and they’re both gibberin’ like crazy and white as sheets. It takes awhile to get a story out of them but finally they calm down enough to tell me. Seems like they been fishin’ for eels in the old abandoned ice pond along the Backwater Road. The summer’s been hot and dry and the pond’s pretty nigh dried up. So that’s how they happen to see a woman’s body lyin’ face down in the dryin’ mud.

I hustle over there as fast as I can. I’m a-hopin’ the boys’ imaginations have run away with them. But the body’s right where they said. It’s pretty badly decomposed but from the clothes and such there ain’t no doubt in my mind that it’s Tonette Garner.

There ain’t no doubt about the cause of her death neither. Her skull’s been cracked wide open. I don’t have to look around much for the murder weapon. It’s lyin’ right beside her in the mud. An old tire iron such as you might find in any car. Later Doc Ruggles performs an autopsy on her but he only confirms what I already guessed. Tonette was dead before her body was weighted and dumped in the pond.

Telling Dave the news is the roughest part of the deal, but he takes it pretty good all things considerin’. He grows sort of pale and rubs the back of his hand over his lips the way I seen him do lots o’ times when he’s upset.

He says, “I reckon Tonette’s been dead to me for a long time now. But mebbe that was my fault as much as hers. Leastwise she didn’t deserve nothin’ like this. I hope you catch the swine as did it to her.”

Just then the door of the shop slams and we both look up, expectin’ a customer. But we’re wrong. It’s Little Kenny Stuart lightin’ out of the shop like somebody’s put salt on his tail. I see him walkin’ fast, almost runnin’, along the main street. His head is down and his narrow shoulders is hunched together. Looks to me like he’s bawlin’ and tryin’ to hide his face so nobody’ll notice.

Dave says sort of reproachful, “I wish you hadn’t blurted that out about Tonette in front o’ Kenny. The kid’s had a crush on her for a long time and it was sort of pathetic because, while she was feedin’ him a line, he never had a chance to get to first base.”

I wasn’t so sure but I didn’t say nothin’, just made a mental note to have a chat with Kenny sometime soon.

But first things come first, and the man I want to lay my hands on right now is Nick Gulden. Nobody seen hair nor hide of him since Tonette’s disappeared and now it looks like maybe he had good reason for makin’ himself scarce. First off I think of phoning through to the Portland police to detain him, but then I reckon I want to be in on the kill. If I take him by surprise he won’t have no way of knowin’ that Tonette’s body’s been found and he may do or say something to give himself away.

So I jump into the county car and head for Portland. I arrive too late to do any checkin’ that night but I’m waitin’ bright and early the next morning when the branch office of Tomkins and Lawrence opens up. That’s the firm for which Gulden works and I aim to ask a few questions about him before I take him into custody.

The first person I meet up with is a receptionist. She’s got a fancy sign on her desk sayin’ as how she’s Miss Barton. She’s a pretty little thing and I reckon if Nick Gulden’s in the vicinity he’ll be right in there pitchin’ her some woo. From what I seen of Nick he never misses a bet.

When I ask about Nick, Miss Barton jerks her head up in a startled sort o’ way but she’s cool as a cucumber when she speaks.

“Mr. Gulden isn’t with us any more. Is there any way I can be of service?”

“Well, it’s sort of personal, Miss. Can you tell me how I can locate him?”

“If you could state the nature of your business—” Her voice trails off.

I know when I’m gettin’ the runaround and I don’t like it, not even when the girl’s got big soulful eyes like Miss Barton. I clamps down hard. I tell her who I am and that I want all the information I can get about Nick Gulden and I want it fast. She could see I mean it.

She flushes up and it makes her look prettier than ever. She says, “You don’t have to jump down my throat. I’m just obeying orders.”

“Never mind that. Just tell me where I can find Nick Gulden.”

She gives her head a toss. “You’d have to go to a cemetery for that. Mr. Gulden is dead.”

That really sets me back on my heels the way I guess she meant for it to. “How did he die,” I ask. “And when?”

“He was killed in an automobile accident on May second.”

I’m thinkin’ fast. If what she tells me is straight, it don’t rule Nick out as a murderer, but it does mean that forged letter from Tonette was mailed from Portland six days after he was dead. And why should anyone but the killer want to confuse issues like that?

“Are you sure about that date, Miss Barton?”

“Certainly I am. I don’t make mistakes on matters of importance. But if you doubt my word, you’d better speak to Mr. Clarke. He’s just come in.”

She leads me into the manager’s office. Clarke’s a gruff sort of man with no nonsense about him. He confirms what Miss Barton’s told me. Playin’ around in the back of my mind is some idea that Nick’s fakin’ his death to cover up his murder of Tonette Garner. But there ain’t a ghost of a chance of any hankypanky. Nick was killed instantly in a traffic accident. Clarke identified the body and attended the funeral.

Just to make doubly sure I check with the police. After that I drive around to the roomin’ house where Nick lived for a chat with his landlady. Mrs. Everett is plump and white-haired and sort of makes me think of Maw. She’s willin’ enough to let me see his room but everything’s been cleaned put and sent to his mother in Florida.

I’m biddin’ goodbye to Mrs. Everett on the porch when her two grandchildren come home. The little girl’s about nine or ten and the boy’s a year or so younger. They listen wide-eyed to what we’re sayin’ and Mrs. Everett’s got a pleading expression on her face like she don’t want me to talk about the dead man in front of them.

But the warning comes too late. The little girl pipes up, “Is he asking about Nick, too?”

Before Mrs. Everett can interrupt, I jumps in. “Was someone else askin’ about him?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“The day Granny was away helping with the church supper. Ronnie and I were all alone. The man asked lots of questions and he wouldn’t believe me when I told him Nick had gone away and didn’t live here any more. He scared me.”

“How did he scare you?”

“He didn’t leave. He went out and sat in his car. He just sat there for the longest time.”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn’t see him very well. I didn’t dare open the screen door. Granny told me not to while she was away.”

“Did you notice what kind of a car he had?”

The little girl shook her head but Ronnie was jumping up and down in excitement.

“I did. I did,” he crowed. “It was a blue Olds. I even snuck out and got the number ’cause I was playing ’tective that day.”

“What was it?”

“That’s easy. It was KC 12345.”

Mrs. Everett is growing impatient. She sends the children into the house and stands in front of me, her face all puckered up in a frown.

She says, “Really, Sheriff, was it necessary to question the children? They do get over-excited, you know.”

“They been a big help. But why did the little girl say Nick had gone away? Didn’t she know he’d been killed?”

“No. I tried to shield her from that knowledge. She’s too young to know about death. Now if you’ll excuse me, please.”

“Just one more question,” I plead. “Can you set the date when this man was here?”

Her lips purse. “That shouldn’t be too hard. It was the afternoon of the church supper. That would be a Tuesday. Let me check it on my calendar.”

She ducks inside but is back in a minute with the information. The date is May 8, the same day the forged letter was mailed from Portland.

I don’t like the thoughts I’m thinkin’ while I’m drivin’ back to Cripple’s Bend. Nick Gulden is dead and Dave Garner’s blue Olds was in Portland the very day the decoy letter was sent.

I get home late and I reckon I’m sort of grumpy with Maw, but I don’t want to tell her about my suspicions, knowin’ how fond she is of Dave.

The next morning I go by his shop. “When was you in Portland last, Dave?”

He gives me a blank look. “Why, I dunno. Must be runnin’ up to three years.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dave.”

His big fists double up into knots and I think for a minute he’s going to attack me but he relaxes and says real quiet, “I ain’t lyin’ to you. What makes you think I would?”

“Your car was seen there on May 8th.”

The breath goes out of him and he sets down hard on a straight-back chair. “My car, maybe. But not me.”

I can see him looking toward the front of the shop where Little Kenny Stuart is standin’ behind the counter listenin’. Kenny says, “That’s true. I was driving Dave’s car that day.”

“And checkin’ on Nick Gulden?”

Kenny’s face twisted. “Yes, that too. I reckoned if I could find Nick, he’d lead me to Tonette. I didn’t believe they were married. I thought if I could talk to Tonette that... that—” He broke off, looking miserably at Dave.

“Do you know that Nick Gulden is dead?”

His head jerks up. “Dead! The little girl told me he’d gone away. I thought he and Tonette were together until they found her. Nick killed Tonette, didn’t he, Sheriff?”

“I can’t say. But sure as shootin’ he didn’t mail that letter that was supposed to be from Tonette.”

“Who did?”

“You did, Kenny. It had to be you.”

“No. No. I swear it.”

His forehead was broken out with sweat and his eyes were wild. I could smell the fear in him and I knew he was lying. But I didn’t tell him so because I didn’t have any proof. I didn’t want him to get the wind up too soon and make a run for it.

I had a lot of heavy ponderin’ to do and I always think best on a full stomach. So I decide the next step is to load up on flapjacks and maple syrup in Gimpy’s Diner down the street.

I’m just, polishin’ off my flapjacks when Lily Peterson sidles onto the stool beside me. Lily’s a good healthy girl and she ain’t hard to look at, but I’ll have to admit she couldn’t never hold a candle to Tonette. A time back she and Kenny Stuart was going steady but they busted up when Kenny started makin’ sheep’s-eyes at Tonette. Still, I guess everybody knew Lily was still holdin’ a torch for him.

Lily’s got a job in the bank, workin’ as Mert Simon’s secretary. I can tell by the nervous way she orders her coffee and just sets there stirrin’ and stirrin’ it without even takin’ a sip that she’s got something on her mind.

I don’t press her none, just wait until she’s good and ready to spill. Finally she blurts out, “I just been talkin’ to Kenny. You think he killed Tonette, don’t you?”

“That’s puttin’ it mighty strong. Let’s just say there’s some, suspicious circumstances pointin’ toward Kenny.”

She snaps back real perky. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Sheriff. Kenny wasn’t with Tonette the night she disappeared.”

“You sound mighty certain o’ that.”

“I am. I know Mert Simon had a date with her. I was in his office when Tonette came there begging him to take her to St. Onge. Mert stalled around for a time but in the end he agreed to be at her place at eight o’clock.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Lily?”

She flushes up ’til her cheeks are bright red. “A good secretary doesn’t pry into her boss’ private affairs. I never would have told you except that Kenny’s in danger.”

She gets up real quick and hurries away.

There’s nothin’ to do but question Mert Simon again and this time to make it clear I know he’s been lyin’ to me.

I catch him in his office with Lily right there, sittin’ at her desk in the corner. Mert tends to be pretty stuffy and self-righteous, but I ride him hard.

I guess he reckons Lily must have told me the truth because after awhile he gives a big phony laugh and his manner grows fulsome in a man-to-man way that gets my dander up.

He spreads his hands in a mock gesture of surrender and says, “All right, Sheriff. I’ll come clean. Tonette did barge in on me that day. She did ask me to take her to St. Onge. I tried to stall her and she started to make a scene. Now that sort of thing looks bad in a bank and Tonette knew it. I might even say there was an element of blackmail in her demands. I’d already decided to make a break with her and now I knew the sooner I did it the better. But I didn’t want to risk her throwing hysterics all over the place so I agreed to meet her that night. But about seven o’clock I called her up and told her she’d have to find some other way to get to St. Onge. She was pretty nasty about it, but I just hung up. That’s the last I ever heard from her.”

“What did you do that night, Mert?”

“I fixed myself some supper, read for awhile, listened to the radio and went to bed.”

“You got any witnesses?”

“Nary a one. It looks like you’ll just have to take my word, Sheriff.”

I don’t bother to remind him his word ain’t been too good in the past. Instead I snap at him, “Where were you on May 8th?”

He flips through a red leather appointment book and comes up with the answer, “I was in Boston attending a convention. I’ve a couple of hundred witnesses because I made a speech there.”

“Did you stop over in Portland?”

“I passed through on my way down.”

“Did you mail any letters from there?”

He looks puzzled but he answers real steady, “No, Sheriff. I didn’t.”

I ain’t any more satisfied with Mert Simon’s story than I am with Kenny Stuart’s and, to tell the truth, I don’t know which way to turn.

When I get back to my office, Lieutenant Buck, of the State Crime Laboratory in Augusta, is waitin’ for me. I’d sent the decoy letter along, with some samples of Tonette’s handwriting up there. Buck tells me what I already know, that it’s a forgery. He adds that all the curly-cues and flourishes make it. easier to imitate than more simple handwriting.

That ain’t much help but what he tells me next has me sittin’ up straight in my chair. Seems there’s a handwriting expert up at the state university who’s a wizard. He claims that no matter how a person tries to disguise his handwriting he can spot it every time ’cause there’s little mannerisms that give him away, and he recognizes them.

Lieutenant Buck says, “Have you got any suspicions as to who might have written that letter?”

I opine as, I got a couple of likely suspects and I don’t know which looks the more guilty.

Lieutenant Buck says, “I tell you what to do. You ask both suspects to copy this letter. Then you shoot the specimens up to Prof. Leighton and I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts he’ll pick out your man.”

After he goes, I stew around for awhile. I got a feeling Tonette’s murder ain’t going to be solved as easy as all that and that there’s a piece, missin’ somewhere. All the same I amble over to Dave’s shop. Kenny Stuart’s there all alone and I tell him what I want him to do.

Kenny’s so flustered and jittery he can hardly hold the pen. He makes a couple of blots on the paper and, all the time he’s writin’, he keeps lickin’ his lips and lookin’ at me like a dog that’s scared he’s goin’ to taste the whip.

He hands me the paper like he’s passin’ over his life.

I says, “Kenny, if you got somethin’ on your mind, you better tell me.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, Sheriff, except that I didn’t kill Tonette.”

I have to let it go at that.

The bank’s closed so I drive out to Mert Simon’s house. He’s good and mad and starts blusterin’ about his rights. But when I point out he’s actin’ mighty suspicious, he clamps his jaws together, sits down at a desk and dashes off the note in his clipped, neat handwriting.

That night Maw’s got creamed finnan haddie for supper with Indian puddin’ for desert. They’re my favorites but I don’t enjoy my food much. When we’re finished, Maw comes and puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Paw,” she says, “you’re eatin’ mighty pecky. I never known you to turn down seconds on my Indian puddin’ before.”

When Maw’s in the mood there ain’t no sense in tryin’ to hold nothin’ back from her. So I tells her what I been doin’ and why.

Maw purses her lips in and out while I’m talkin’ and then she takes off her glasses and polishes ’em. When she speaks her voice is real soft and gentle.

“I know what’s gnawin’ at you, Paw. You’re afraid that Dave Garner killed his wife, but you don’t want to admit it. Not even to yourself.”

“He couldn’t have,” I yells. “I know them trout streams where he was fishin’. He couldn’t have got there and caught himself a batch of speckled trout and come back in time to kill Tonette. Besides he warn’t anywhere near Portland when that forged letter was sent.”

“Then you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. So why don’t you drop over and see Dave?”

I don’t like it but I know Maw’s right. As long as I’m sheriff, I can’t play favorites with a murderer at large.

Dave’s in his room at Cripple’s Inn, layin’ on his bed with a half dozen empty beer cans spewed around. He acts right glad to see me and that hurts worst of all. I explain to him why I’ve come. He gets a serious expression on his face but he’s just as friendly as ever.

He writes out the first half dozen words easy enough, then the pen drops out of his, hand and he just sits there starin’ at the paper.

After a minute or so he looks up with a travesty of a grin and says, “I guess it ain’t no use to hold out any longer. I reckon I’ll feel better if I confess.”

Then he blurts out his story. Seems like all the time he’s been pretendin’ that he don’t give a tinker’s dam about bein’ washed up with Tonette, he’s been eatin’ out his heart with jealousy.

After they separate he can’t leave well enough alone. He keeps traipsin’ back to the farm at night to spy on her. He sees Nick Gulden, Mert Simon and even Little Kenny Stuart cuddlin’ up to her. Looks like she’ll give herself to any man but him. He tells himself, if he spies on her long enough, he’ll get disgusted with her. But it don’t work that way. Pretty soon he’s half crazy thinkin’ of her in some other man’s arms.

That Friday, when she come to his shop and asked him to take her to St. Onge, his pride made him turn her down, especially as Kenny Stuart was lookin’ on. So he starts off on his fishin’ trip but he don’t get far. When the bus reaches Bradley’s Corner, he jumps off and walks back across the fields to town. It’s dark by them His car’s in back of the shop where he’s told Kenny to leave it. He gets in and drives to the farm.

Tonette was all packed and ready to go when Mert Simon stood her up. As far as she’s concerned, Dave’s a godsend. She jumps into his car and off they go.

But Dave ain’t aimin’ to take her to St. Onge unless she agrees to marry him again. He stops down the road a stretch and tells her so.

Tonette just laughs at him. She says if she ever remarries it’s going to be to a man with some life in him, not a stupid hayseed who can’t think about nothing but trout fishin’ and makin’ fancy lures.

One word leads to another. It ain’t long before they’re yellin’ at each other. Tonette slaps Dave across the face and leaps out o’ the car, sayin’ she’d rather walk home than spend another minute with him.

Dave sees red. There’s a tire iron in the car and he picks it up and takes off after Tonette. He claims he just means to give her a scare but, when he lifts the iron over his head, she sneers at him and tells him he ain’t got the guts to strike her.

The next thing he knows she’s lyin’ at his feet with her skull crushed. He kneels beside her and knows she’s dead and that he’s a murderer.

All the fire washes out of him and nothin’s left but the cold fear of goin’ to prison. For a man who loves the outdoors like Dave, the thought of bein’ cooped up in a cell is worse than death. His instinct for self-preservation takes over and he deliberately kills every other emotion.

He backs the car alongside o’ Tonette’s body and lifts her into the front seat. He just drives around for awhile at random, stick-in’ to the back roads so nobody’ll see him. He ain’t got no plan in mind but when he sees the abandoned ice pond, it comes to him that’s about the safest place to hide Tonette. He drags her into the water and piles some stones on top of her. Then he drives his car back to the store and leaves it just the way Kenny had parked it, in a hurry.

He lets himself into the rear of the store. Blood’s splattered all over his chest so he gets a fresh khaki shirt and a lumber-jacket, such as he’s been wearin’, from his stock and puts them on. He hides the blood-stained clothes in a closet to destroy later. He sponges the front seat of the car and then he sets out across country on foot.

The next morning he picks up the bus at Bradley’s Corner and heads for the trout streams. He’s lost the better part of a day but he still reckons a batch of trout will give him an alibi.

Trouble is his luck’s against him, or maybe he’s just too much on edge to have the patience you need to catch trout. Anyway when it’s time to go back, he’s caught himself nary a fish. He’s got the wind up because he don’t dare show up in Cripple’s Bend empty-handed.

He’s feelin’ desperate when he runs across an old codger sittin’ on the bank of the stream with a full catch. Ten dollars changes hands and Dave’s got himself as pretty a basket of trout as you’d hope to see.

As luck would have it, he bumps into me when he jumps off the bus at Cripple’s Bend and he reckons that sharin’ the trout with me and Maw is really going to hammer home his alibi. He did just that.

After that he ain’t top worried ’til Tonette’s mother starts raisin’ a ruckus about her disappearin’. He knows the gossips around Cripple’s Bend are saying as how Tonette’s run away with Nick Gulden, so the idea comes to him that a letter announcin’ her marriage will stop Mrs. Catteau’s questions.

Dave practices Tonette’s writing until he reckons he’s well-nigh perfect. The next problem is how to mail the letter. He don’t dare send it from Cripple’s Bend or anywhere near, and it’s too dangerous to leave town at the time it’s mailed.

The answer comes to him when Kenny Stuart asks to borrow the Olds. He fixes up a stack of business letters and sticks the envelope to Mrs. Catteau in the middle of it. He asks Kenny to mail the lot in Portland, knowin’ Kenny ain’t the nosey kind who’ll look over the addresses.

His plan works out all right until I come around makin’ accusations against Kenny.

Dave takes a long breath and says, “I guess I would have tried to bluff it out if it warn’t for Kenny. He must have guessed the trick I played on him but he was too loyal to spill.”

After that me and Dave just sit lookin’ at each other for a long time. Both of us know what I got to do and how much I hate doin’ it. When I get up Dave follows me out of the room and we go downstairs together. Seein’ as how there ain’t no jail in Cripple’s Bend, I drive him to the police barracks over in Barrow and leave him there.

It’s past midnight when I get back home but Maw’s sittin’ up in the front room waitin’ for me.

She looks at my face and don’t ask no questions, just bustles around fixin’ up some hot coffee.

I says, “Maw, you knew it was Dave all the time. You was holdin’ out on me.”

Maw sort of dabs at her eyes and says, “I can’t rightly say as how I knew Dave killed Tonette, but sure as God made green apples he never caught them trout.”

“How’d you know?” I ask.

“I cleaned and gutted them fish. The hook had snapped off in a couple of ’em and there was earth-worms on them hooks. There was pieces of sliced earthworms in the gullets of the others. Now you know Dave wouldn’t be caught dead usin’ nothin’ but a lure.”

I’m doin’ a slow burn, thinkin’ how Maw’s made a fool of me and how I’d probably never got Dave’s confession if it hadn’t been for her. But I don’t want her to know what I’m thinkin’ so I_ says real peevishlike, “I always told Dave them fancy lures of his wouldn’t bring him nothin’ but bad luck.”

But Maw has the last word like she always does. She snaps back at me, “The real lure was that fancy woman he picked up, with her smooth and wicked ways. Dave didn’t have no more brains than a trout or he would of seen she was enticin’ him on to no good. He should have took a lesson from you and married a plain ugly woman with no frilly trimmin’s.”

There warn’t no answer to that and I warn’t fool enough to make one. I just finish my coffee and amble up to the bedroom.

I’m feelin’ right low about the way things turned out for Dave but there ain’t no use broodin’. Anyway, I perk up a mite when I hear Maw’s footsteps climbin’ the stairs.