Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

The Bushwhackers by Richard O. Lewis

It was Saturday night, and the Four Lonely Hearts Bridge Club was in full, uncertain session.

Betty Emmert, hostess for the evening, had just failed to fulfill a contract of five spades. She was a slim brunette with large, dark eyes and a rather retiring disposition. “Sorry, partner,” she said, gathering up the discards.

Although she said she was sorry, she knew deep down that the real fault lay with her partner, Sara Berney. Sara had simply thrown her the wrong clues, and the dummy she had laid down was certainly not what it should have been.

Sara, like her hostess, was also slim and brunette. But from that point on, all resemblance ceased. Where Betty was retiring and sometimes not quite sure of herself, Sara was quite positive concerning her own attributes and was in the habit of condescending from her own high level to give helpful advice, along with a measure of pity, to those about her who were less fortunate than she — generally accompanying the advice and pity with a venomous barb whenever possible.

“If you had ruffed a club instead of a heart on your jack of trump,” she pointed out in her helpful manner, “you could easily have filled your contract.”

Betty could see no point in arguing about it. “I’ll try to do better next time,” she said. “Guess I just wasn’t thinking.” Her long fingers began fluttering the cards together.

“I know it’s hard to concentrate, dear,” said Sara, “when you have so many other things on your mind.” There was the pity — accompanied by the poisonous dart.

Betty knew exactly what Sara meant by “other things.” Sara never let an opportunity pass to imply to Betty — and to whoever else happened to be present — that Betty’s husband, Fred, masculine and handsome as he was, most certainly was stepping out on poor Betty and that poor Betty couldn’t help but know about it and be worried sick about it and that she, Sara, felt so very, very sorry for poor Betty because of the whole unfortunate situation.

During her entire seven years of married life, Betty had never had reason to believe that Fred had ever been unfaithful to her. Saturday nights, he played poker with the boys at the Businessmen’s Club and had a few drinks — or, at least, that’s what he was supposed to be doing.

But Sara had finally succeeded in sowing the seeds of suspicion, and now Betty was beginning to feel unsure of herself, insecure. T. J. Berney, Sara’s husband, always rode to the club with Fred, leaving his own car for Sara’s use. T. J. — tall, dark, and somewhat pious in demeanor — did not indulge in the immoralities of drinking and gambling as Fred did. Instead, he belonged to one of the bowling teams that held forth in the basement of the club. Had T. J. said something to Sara, indicating a possibility of infidelity on Fred’s part? And was Sara, in her own way, trying to get the message across...

Helen Rhinhart at Betty’s left suddenly pushed herself away from the table and began struggling to her feet. “Excuse me one little minute,” she said, picking up her empty beer bottle. “I’ll be right back.”

Helen could be described only as a soft blonde. Soft hair, soft eyes, soft cheeks, soft lips, and a soft, yielding body. During each meeting of the bridge club, she excused herself periodically from the table, either to go to the bathroom or to the refrigerator or both. She belonged to the bridge club because her husband, “Rhiney” — bald, rotund, and as soft in his own way as Helen — bowled on the same team as T. J. and was therefore occupied every Saturday night.

“If you will kindly deal the cards,” said Gloria Hayden at Betty’s right, “maybe we can play another hand or two before I fall asleep completely.”

Gloria’s outward aspect changed with each visit to the beauty salon. At present, she was wearing a tawney, shoulder-length hair piece with facial coloring to match. A golden serpent encircled her throat and a similar one was twined about her left wrist. But in whatever guise Gloria presented herself, her eyes never changed. They were green, gold-flecked, calculating, and almost completely hidden by thick lashes. The eyes of a female predator. She had had two husbands, and been unfaithful to each, was drawing alimony from both, and was looking for a third one — anybody’s.

“She’s not really carnivorous,” Helen had once said. “Just husbandiverous.”

“Sorry,” Betty said, and began distributing the cards.

Helen came back to her chair, sat down, filled her glass from the fresh bottle she had brought, emptied it, refilled it, and sat the empty bottle on the floor beside her. “I feel much better now,” she announced.

Gloria picked up her cards one at a time, squirming restlessly as if she had a colony of creeping things somewhere in her under garments. She had been invited to substitute for the fourth regular member of the club who had suddenly become ill with the flu. She had accepted, reluctantly, and had spent most of the evening wiggling, smoking incessantly, and looking as if she’d rather be almost anywhere else than where she was.

Betty picked up her cards and began arranging them according to suit. When she had finished, a slow, hot flush rose from her neck to spread across her face. “I’m — I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve — I’ve made a misdeal. I have too many cards.”

“Dear, dear,” said Sara. “My poor dear.”

“Jees!” said Gloria. She gave her cards a slight toss in Betty’s direction.

“Here,” said Helen. “Let me help you.” She made a swooping gesture toward the cards with both hands. Her glass of beer, struck by an elbow, went spinning to the center of the table, spewing its foamy contents promiscuously.

“Holy gawd!” sighed Gloria.

Sara leaped to her feet and began brushing suds from the front of her dress.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” cried Betty, hurrying toward the kitchen. She was back seconds later with a towel for Sara and one for the table. The way the cards clung together, it was obvious that they would never again serve their intended purpose. “They’re the only ones I have,” apologized Betty. “I was going to get a couple of decks this morning, but — well, I forgot.”

Sara tossed her used towel to the table. “You shouldn’t let yourself worry so much about — about things,” she said.

Damn the poison darts! And, also, damn the bridge club! Betty tightened her jaws and felt that she was rapidly approaching a danger point.

Gloria left the table and began a restless tour of the room. She stopped at one of the windows and stood gazing out into the night, nervously flicking her cigaret.

Helen was staring dejectedly at the empty glass she had hastily retrieved from the table. Finally, she set it down carefully and began making her way slowly and unobtrusively toward the kitchen refrigerator. She returned a moment later, a fresh bottle in hand.

Gloria spun suddenly away from the window. “I know what let’s do!” she said. “Let’s go bushwhacking!”

“Bushwhacking?” Betty had never heard the term before.

“Sure. You know. Drive around through the bushes and let your lights flash over parked cars. Very interesting. And tonight is certainly a swell night for it!”

Trust Gloria to know about things like that!

Betty piled the limp cards on top of the towels on the table. “Well, I don’t know...”

“The party has been hovering near death all evening,” said Gloria. “If we don’t do something pretty soon to revive it, we’ll have a corpse on our hands.”

“Sounds like fun!” said Helen. She raised her bottle high by its neck and waved it, banner-like. “Let’s go whack a bush,” she sang. “Let’s go whack a bush-a-bush-a-bush...”

“No use worrying and brooding all the time,” Sara said pointedly.

Gloria started for the door. “We’ll take my car.”

Banner held high, Helen marched out the door after her and followed her into the front seat of the little sports car.

Betty tagged along reluctantly and climbed into the back seat with Sara. There seemed to be little else she could do concerning the situation.

Six miles out of town, Gloria swung off the main highway and onto a graveled road that led gradually upward. At the top of the knoll, she slowed and entered a rutted lane that led into an unfenced area filled with scrub fir and ground-hugging pines, her bright lights bringing the scene into bold relief.

Dim trails branched from the lane at irregular intervals. She selected one and began slowly following its meandering course. In a moment the headlights swept directly into the front seat of a parked car. The couple there quickly disembraced themselves, and the girl put up an arm to shield her eyes and face.

“Here’s to you!” shouted Helen, raising her bottle.

The next car seemed unoccupied, but part of a blanket was plainly visible between two sheltering trees.

“Some fun!” said Helen. “I’ll have to bring old Rhiney out here some night. He might pick up an idea or two.”

“I doubt it,” sniffed Sara.

Gloria swung the car slowly but surely in and out among the trees. Probably knows the area like a book! thought Betty.

The lights suddenly swept broadside across a parked red sedan. At sight of the car, a gasp arose in Betty’s throat, She felt Sara go rigid beside her and clutch her free hand.

The red sedan had been visible for only a few fleeting seconds, but Betty felt certain that everyone had recognized it. She felt cold and weak, as if her entire body were melting away.

Gloria got back to the rutted lane almost instantly and began jouncing rapidly along it toward the graveled road. “Damn!” she muttered. “Damn! I guess you just can’t trust anybody!”

Betty walked slowly to the front porch as the other cars drove away. She let herself into the lighted livingroom, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, feeling as if her brain had ceased all function.

She went to the table, finally, gathered up the towels, Gloria’s loaded ash tray, the wilted cards, Helen’s empty bottle and glass and carried them to the kitchen where she disposed the entire lot into the refuse can.

She went back into the livingroom, sat down at the table, and stared into space. Her entire world — her being, her very reason for existance — seemed to have evaporated, leaving her with a great emptiness she had never before experienced.

Then, slowly, her mind began seeking a way out, an excuse, anything that would bring her back from the void. Perhaps the red sedan was not Fred’s. After all, she had not seen the license plate, and there could easily be a dozen such cars in the metropolitan area. Or someone could have stolen Fred’s car...

She had a sudden impulse to call the Businessmen’s Club. But she dismissed the idea almost instantly. Fred had told her never to call the club and ask for him because it would be a waste of time. The barman always answered the phone, and if a wife asked to speak with her husband, the barman gave her a stock answer — “Well, I don’t see him around just at present.” — and hung up. If the wife called again, she got the same answer. The Businessmen’s Club was a male sanctum sanctorum, a citidel, the walls of which no mere wife could ever hope to breach.

Betty closed her eyes tightly and clinched her small fists on the table. What if, after all these year, Fred had been going out every week with some — some woman! Had Sara known about it all along? Or were her poison darts merely random shots in the dark?

She pounded the table. Oh, the shame of it all! Sara and Gloria — maybe even Helen — pitying her, feeling sorry...

She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly midnight. Fred would be home soon. He always arrived home some time before one o’clock.

She stood beside the table, torn with indecision. Should she confront him? Accuse him? No. If he had been out with someone, he would simply deny it. Anyway, she was too emotionally upset to face him at present. She would probably crack up, become hysterical, make a scene, get nowhere.

Minutes later, she was upstairs in bed, curled into a tiny ball, the covers up to her ears.

She heard him come into the drive, put the car into the garage, come into the kitchen, open and close the refrigerator door. Finally, she heard his slow steps upon the stairs, heard him go to the bathroom. Then, without turning on the lights, he came into the bedroom and slid into bed beside her.

“Well, I hope you had fun tonight!”

She could have bit herself. She hadn’t intended to say anything. The words had just come tumbling out on their own accord.

“If losing twelve bucks is having fun,” he grunted, “then I’ve had it!” As usual, after a night out and a snack from the refrigerator, he fell promptly into a deep sleep.

Betty prepared coffee for herself Sunday morning, poured a cup, and sat down at the kitchen table. After a fitful, sleepless night, she felt haggard and drawn, a floating entity without a goal. Sometime during the night, she had reached a definite decision: she couldn’t continue life with Fred, wondering, never knowing. She had to discover the truth, one way or another! But, how!

It being Sunday, Fred would sleep till noon then spend most of the rest of the day glued to the TV, watching baseball games, sipping a few beers, munching sandwiches she would put on the tray beside him, taking a few cat naps, paying little attention to her, resting up for the week ahead. She could get through the day all right without her mood being noticed. She would have the house to herself Monday. Perhaps by then she could think straight...

Pleading a sick headache, Betty didn’t get out of bed Monday morning until after she heard Fred leave for work. Then she got dressed, went downstairs, fixed coffee, and sat down at the table to think.

She had hardly seated herself before a light tapping came from the kitchen door, and then the door itself was pushed open. Sara stuck her head around the edge of the door, then came the rest of the way in. “I ran over with some nice sweet rolls,” she said, placing a covered dish on the table. She got a cup and poured herself some coffee.

“I’m— I’m not very hungry just now,” said Betty.

“You poor dear,” pitied Sara. “But you’ve got to eat something, you know.” Her dark eyes searched Betty’s face in search of signs of distress.

“I had some toast earlier,” Betty lied. Why was it that some people actually groveled in the misfortune of others!

Fred ate most of the sweet rolls that night.

Tuesday morning, Sara was back again, bringing pan rolls along as an excuse to shower down her cloying pity.

Damn her! thought Betty. Isn’t she ever going to give up!

Betty called a garage that afternoon and made an appointment to have her compact car checked over the following morning.

Fred passed favorable judgement on the pan rolls that night by eating at least half of them.

Betty came downstairs Wednesday morning just before Fred left for work. “I made an appointment at Simms’ Garage to have the compact checked over this morning,” she said. “But this head...” She passed a hand over her brow. “Would you mind taking the car there this morning — on your way to work?”

Fred nodded. “Sure, I will.” At the door, he turned. “And you’d better see Doc Markham about that headache of yours. You’ve had it several days now.”

Doc Markham also belonged to the Businessmen’s Club, and the boys at the club never missed a chance to toss whatever business they could to each other.

As soon as she heard Fred drive off, Betty hurried to the kitchen, picked up a newspaper and flashlight, and went out to the garage. She switched on the lights, crossed over to the red sedan, opened a rear door, and with the aid of the dome light and flashlight began to search for tell-tale clues. The seat revealed nothing. She turned the beam of her light to the floor. She picked up a gum wrapper, placed the newspaper on the floor, the gum wrapper on the paper, then emptied the contents of an ash receptacle onto the paper. She went around to the other side of the car, opened the door, and continued her search. A green button made of polished plastic. She placed it on the paper and reached for the ash receptacle on that side of the car. She was in the process of emptying the ashes and cigarette butts when a slight shadow fell across the paper. She glanced up. Sara was standing there looking at her through the opposite door.

“I saw the light and thought you’d be here,” said Sara. She handed a package through the door. “And I brought you a jelly roll.”

Betty took the package and felt a hot flush of anger begin to burn her cheeks.

“Looking for something?”

“Just cleaning out the car,” said Betty.

“Well, I guess it pays to keep busy,” said Sara, her eyes roving gloatingly over the gum wrapper, the green button, and the cigarette butts, some of which were smeared heavily with lip stick. “Keeps one from thinking about — about things.”

“Look, Sara.” Betty could not keep the anger out of her voice. “I won’t have time to sit and chat today. I have many things to do.”

Sara looked up quickly, her face suddenly creased with hard lines. She turned and, without a word, stalked out of the garage.

“And I hope she stays mad for a month!” breathed Betty.

Back in the kitchen with the newspaper spread out on the table before her, Betty realized how foolish her search of the car had been. Fred was in the real estate business and whenever a company car was not available he generally used the sedan to show apartments and various proper-ties to prospective customers. The wife of any of those prospects could have dropped a gum wrapper, lost a green button from her dress, and smoked the smeared cigarettes. She folded the paper and its contents and tossed them into the trash can.

She sat at the kitchen table for a long time, thinking. She could not continue in this half-world of hers — doubting, never knowing, worrying herself sick. She would have to have positive proof, one way or another. Then, finally, she knew what she must do to obtain that proof. It had been lurking in the back of her mind right along, but, up until now, she had been pushing it back.

The next three days dragged slowly by. She did her work in a mechanical manner — her body functioning while her mind hung in a void of suspended animation.

Saturday night, Fred kissed her as usual before leaving for the club.

“Have fun,” she said.

“I’ll get that twelve bucks back tonight,” he promised. “With interest!”

It was Sara’s turn to be hostess to the bridge club. Betty had no intention of attending. She was about to call Sara when the telephone started jangling. She picked it up. “Betty speaking,” she said.

“I have cancelled the bridge club for tonight,” came Sara’s terse voice. She hung up without further explanation.

“Still mad,” thought Betty, recradling the phone.

She turned on the television and sat staring at it without really seeing it until the small hand of the mantle clock made two complete revolutions. Ten o’clock. Time to go. She shut off the television, went out to the garage, and got into her compact, her jaws set in hard, quivering lines.

She had no trouble in finding the graveled road and the little lane that led from it into the woodland area. But into which one of the numerous little trails had Gloria turned on that eventful night a week ago? She had made a left turn. Yes, and there had been a dead tree there leaning against its neighbors, its bare trunk stark white in the glare of the headlights.

She found the tree, finally, made a left turn and in a moment or two passed the spot where the girl in the front seat had thrown up an arm against the light beams. Then the place where there had been a half-hidden blanket...

Betty put the car into low gear and crept slowly along, eyeing each side of the trail. Presently, tire tracks led off to the left. Cautiously, she followed them into a sheltered clearing, turned the car around so that it would be headed back in the direction from whence she had come, switched off the motor and lights, and got out. A lopsided moon hung low in the eastern sky, filling the little clearing with splotches of pale light surrounded by black shadows. She stood for a moment, getting her bearings. If she entered that screening wall of trees, keeping the moon at her back, she should intersect the lane at the approximate place where the sedan had been parked a week ago. Then, facing the moon, she could easily find her way back to her own car.

She reached the fringe of trees and pushed herself slowly into the darkness that lay beyond. She inched along on trembling legs, feeling her way, parting the branches with hands and arms, certain that a black demon would suddenly leap out of nowhere and pounce upon her. Then, suddenly, there were no more branches, and she found herself standing at the edge of the trail. In the dim light, she saw the wide curve and the parking space. But there was no red sedan there. Nothing.

She let out the breath she had been holding. Had she arrived too late? Too soon? Or was the sedan parked somewhere else? There could be a hundred such parking places...

Suddenly, she stiffened. A car was slowly approaching, headlights flashing.

She leaped back among the sheltering trees and crouched down behind a bush to conceal herself. The car glided into the parking place and stopped. Then silence and darkness returned.

Trembling, scarcely able to breathe, she heard the two front doors of the car open and close, one after the other. Then a back door opened — and — finally — closed. Fred’s car? Some other car?

She pushed herself to her feet, took faltering steps to the edge of the trees, and peered out. Almost hidden by shadows was a red sedan! She could see one side of the car and part of the back, but she couldn’t read the license number. She would have to cross the trail, some how, and slip quietly up behind...

She leaped back into the trees again. Another car was approaching. She waited, but the car didn’t pass. It had stopped somewhere further up the trail. At the spot where there had been the half-hidden blanket a week ago? She thought she heard the sound of a door being opened and closed. But she wasn’t sure.

Once again, she made her way to the edge of trees and looked out. Immediately to her right the trail lay in inky blackness where tall trees cast dense shadows. Feeling quite certain she could cross at that point without being seen, she began making her way slowly and silently toward it.

Suddenly, she froze in her tracks. She was not alone. Someone — or something — was moving through the shadows. The black demon? Fist to lips, she held her breath, her eyes striving to pierce the darkness. There it was again, moving through the lesser shadows on the other side of the trail, a crouched figure taking a few silent steps, halting, taking a few more steps, rapidly approaching the red sedan.

The figure paused a moment at the rear of the car, then glided swiftly to its side, threw open the door, and thrust an arm inside.

There came two flashes of light and two crashing shots followed by a piercing scream. Then the figure wheeled away, its contorted face caught briefly in the moonlight as it ran rapidly back down the trail. In a moment, a motor sprang into life and a car went speeding away into the night.

Then came the scream again.

Betty was not certain if the second scream had come from the car or from her own constricted throat. Driven by stark panic, she leaped back into the trees and ran toward the moon, her arms crossed before her face to ward off the clutching branches.

Betty did not remember locating her car or driving home. When the shock began to wear off and her mind began to function once more, she found herself seated at her livingroom table, weak, shaken, and staring into space. How long she had been that way she did not know.

She looked at the clock. Twelve o’clock. The poker game would be over now, and soon Fred would be coming...

Sudden realization flooded over her. No! Fred would never walk through that door again! Fred was dead! Lying in the back of a parked car...

She began pacing the floor, fists clinched, tears of frustration beginning to well into her eyes. Then she realized that she would have to get hold of herself or lose her senses. And what if Fred should come walking in and find her like this...

She sank down at the table again and began striving to put bits and pieces together in her mind. First of all, the one who had fired the shots had been a woman. She was reasonably certain of that. Secondly, the woman had tailed that car into the parking area, had followed it into the shadowy trail, and had known — or guessed — where it would eventually stop. But what woman could possibly hate Fred to the extent of following him and trying to kill him! The woman’s face, etched briefly in the moonlight, had been contorted with hate, unrecognizable.

What should she do? Call the police and report the shooting? They would want to know her identity. If she called anonymously, they might have ways of tracing the call to her. They would want to know how she happened to know about the crime. Had she been there at the time of the shooting? Why?

And then a new fear clutched her. If the police learned that she had been present at the time of the shooting, she, the jealous wife, would instantly become the prime suspect!

Her only ray of hope was that the red sedan had not been Fred’s car. In that case — it was twelve-thirty now — Fred should be coming through that door...

That single ray of hope faded as minute after minute dragged slowly by. She began pacing the floor again, wondering when the body, or bodies, would be found. Other parked couples would probably not investigate the shots, would not want to become involved. She remembered that there had been a shooting in that area a year or so ago. The shooting had been attributed to hoodlums. The bodies had not been found for two days...

Finally, she made a pact with herself. If Fred had not returned by one o’clock, she would call the police, tell them the whole story, rid herself of the suspense that was threatening her very sanity.

She turned to go back to the table again, then stopped in her tracks. A car had pulled into the driveway. She wheeled around, waiting. Steps came falteringly across the porch. The door came open, and Fred stood there, his collar open, his face pale, and and the front of his white shirt smeared with blood.

“It’s all right,” he said, coming in and closing the door behind him. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not hurt. Just — just an accident.”

He hurried to the bar, poured himself a stiff drink, gulped down half of it, and returned to stand beside the davenport.

“We were on our way home and, suddenly, out of nowhere, this — this hoodlum came dashing out to the street corner and began shooting...” He caught sight of the blood on his shirt and began staring at it as if seeing it for the first time. “My God!” he gasped and hurried toward the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen.

Yes, he was lying, putting on some kind of act for her benefit. She felt certain of that.

He was back in a minute or two, bare to the waist. There were no bullet holes in his chest or torso. The blood on his shirt had been from the girl...

He picked up his drink from the table and finished it off. “This — this hoodlum,” he continued, “came rushing up and began firing, point-blank. T. J. got a slug in his arm and another one high up in the shoulder.”

T. J.?

“Guess I got blood on me when I was helping him out of the front seat and into the back where he could lie down while I rushed him to Doc Markham’s place.”

So that’s why Fred was lying! Not to save himself, but to cover up for T. J.! Just like a man!

And then, suddenly, Betty felt a ton of grief and worry slide from her shoulders. Fred had not been parked in that car! It had been T. J.! And T. J. had probably been parked in that car the Saturday night before and other Saturday nights...

But who had done the shooting?

Gloria? Gloria was certainly familiar with that parking area and might easily be involved. Men in general were important to Gloria’s life, but it was hard to conceive of any man in particular driving her to violence.

Sara? A jealous wife finding that her husband had betrayed her? But Sara had been positive all along that Fred had been the philanderer! Even on the previous Saturday night when Gloria’s headlights had swept over the parked sedan, Sara had been so positive Fred had been in the car that she had showered Betty with sweet rolls and cloying pity for several days — until she had brought the jelly roll into the garage that morning and had suddenly became angry...

“Fred,” Betty said abruptly, “does T. J. own a green shirt?”

“A green shirt?” He wrinkled his brow. “Now how on earth would I know what kind of shirts T. J. owns?”

“Try to remember,” Betty urged. “Was T. J. wearing a green shirt last Saturday night?”

Fred’s brow wrinkled some more. “Come to think of it,” he said, finally. “He was wearing some kind of a green thing. A knit pull-over...”

“With three or four buttons at the throat?”

Fred nodded.

Now suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. The jelly roll, the garage, the litter Betty had gleaned from the back seat of the sedan and placed on the newspaper — gum wrapper, cigaret butts, green button — and Sara’s quick anger. The button! Sara had recognized it and had hurried home to check the green shirt — and her world had begun to fall apart.

But Sara had not as yet been absolutely certain. T. J. always rode to the club with Fred, and the button could have got into the back seat in a perfectly innocent manner. And so, tonight, Sara had called off the bridge session and had driven to the club parking lot to watch and to wait. T. J. had probably bowled a game or two before coming out of the club and getting into the red sedan to go after his paramour. Sara had followed, and when the sedan had pulled into the wooded area, her ego had received its final devastating shock. For weeks, she had been showering down poisonous darts and false pity from the parapets of her pride-built castle, and now the whole structure had come crashing down, its foundations kicked asunder by her own husband who at this very moment was probably sitting in the back seat of the sedan — making love...

Obsessed by uncontrolable rage, she had taken the gun from the glove compartment where T. J. generally carried it, had gone to the sedan, thrown open the door, and fired blindly into the interior, caring little whether she killed one or both of the occupants.

After that, T. J. and the girl — whoever she was — had managed to drive the sedan back to the club where they had summoned Fred and Doc Markham and had concocted a story...

“I guess I’ll just never understand women,” Fred said, his brow still wrinkled. “T. J. gets almost murdered tonight, and you want to know the color of the shirt he wore last week!”

“It’s probably best for all concerned,” Betty said, ambiguously, “that you don’t understand.”

Fred was thoughtful for a moment. “Poor Sara,” he said, finally. “Maybe you should bake some Brownies tomorrow and take them to her. She’s been mighty good to us, you know, bringing us sweet rolls and things.”

Betty nodded. “Poor Sara,” she said. “I feel so very, very sorry for her,” she added — and was not at all surprised to find that she really meant it.