Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 14, No. 71, October 1949

A Matter of the Tax Payers’ Money by Vinnie Williams

Vinnie Williams’s “A Matter of the Tax Payers’ Money” is one of the eleven “first stories” which won special awards in last year’s contest. The letter accompanying the manuscript was addressed to Ellery Queen, and began: “I bet the enclosed is one of the few — if any — stories you’ve read written around welfare workers. [The author is right: it may even be the first story we’ve ever read with a social service background.] The ‘sleuth,’ so-called, is a rural welfare worker in Florida — but not one of the sleeker college-girl types. She’s an ‘old fox,’ as her supervisor calls her.” The author, Mrs. Roy R. Williams, went on to say that the details of the story are accurate. Indeed, they impressed us as authentic beyond any capacity on our part even to quibble. There is a realism in the material and in the characters which comes only from first-hand knowledge of the subject matter — just as the spicy, homely, grass-roots, regional-American, ring-of truth dialogue has the stamp of authenticity which comes only from having heard these people speak in real-life, and having the dialect-ear to remember and record. And the simple truth is that Vinnie Williams did do welfare work in rural Florida — mostly north of Lake Okeechobie — for five years.

When we wrote to Mrs. Williams to tell her that we had selected her story — well, suppose we let the author speak for herself. “I haven’t been so obfuscated since I ran into that farrow of hogs a year ago down near Sarasota. [We couldn’t have composed that sentence if our lives had depended on it!] No, I’ve never had a story published before, because I never did any writing before — except welfare case reports. Six months ago my husband bought me a portable typewriter and sicked me at the box full of old welfare forms I’d saved to use as stationery.

“As for my background, I graduated from Florida State University in 1941, with a B. A. in sociology... I’m what my last supervisor calls ‘a natural bo’n cracker worker,’ because I’m a cracker myself and can talk in terms of mustard pickles, frog gigging, Indian Mustang Oil, and outhouses. They once put me to work in St. Petersburg for six months, and I nearly had a breakdown because city folks were just too quick for me.”

Mrs. Williams was born in Charleston, South Carolina, but moved to Florida at the age of 14. She and her husband (“he’s a Georgia cracker”) are now living in Red Bank, New jersey (“stranded in Yankeeland”), where Mr. Williams, an Army man, is now stationed. But they both have their fingers crossed, hoping he’ll be transferred to the South. During her exile in the North, however, Mrs. Williams could not put her time to better use than to continue the saga of Miss Minnie Boyd who, in the author’s own words, is “composed of three parts bloodhound in order to be able to decide if applicants for public assistance actually need help — or if they have vast bank balances hidden in their mattresses.”

Mrs. Carlton, supervisor of the Welfare Office at Mangoville, leaned back in her chair and shook her handsome head.

“Minnie, I’m sorry, but I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Talking of leaving the agency after fifteen years—”

“I should have took off five years ago.” Miss Minnie Boyd stared at the cigarette stub she held pinched in a bobby pin, her sun-crinkled eyes serious. “I’m not denying it’s going to be sort of queer not running all over Florida and sticking my nose into other folks’ affairs, but I’m forty-five, Selma, and it seems like I just don’t have the get-up-and-get I used to. And jouncing around the woods in the old jalopy — well, I reckon I don’t have the bones I used to either.”

“We can transfer you to town.”

“Nope, when I clear up my work, I’m quitting. I’ve got the farm and enough to nudge along on. The agency is getting in more young college girls

every year, and that’s as it should be. They’ve got the pep. What do we old workers have? Maybe a little experience, some pecky bits of knowhow—”

“But Minnie,” Mrs. Carlton leaned forward, eyes earnest, “those pecky bits of know-how are valuable. They’re what the agency needs. Young workers are fine — but what do the crackers say? — ‘A young fox for running, an old fox for cunning.’ It’s the same thing.” She broke off as Miss Minnie shook her gray head. “Oh, all right.” The supervisor ruffled unhappily through a stack of case folders. “Well, how much work do you have on hand?”

Miss Minnie consulted a dog-eared notebook. “Three Old Age Assistance case studies, one Aid to the Blind, one Aid to Dependent Children, and a flock of reviews. About twenty of them.”

Mrs. Carlton touched a manicured finger to her conch paperweight, and a twinkle appeared in her eyes.

“Um— Miss Minnie, do you know a Mrs. Annie Smith, an OAA client out in Possum Trot?”

“That’s one of Madge’s clients, isn’t it? A widow, very self-reliant, religious—”

“Madge describes her as—” Mrs. Carlton leafed pages, “ ‘a good Christian old soul who hates sin, weeds, and chicken ticks.’ ” She closed the record. “That’s why this anonymous note we got this morning surprised me. Seems Mrs. Smith is working at Jut’s jook joint.”

“Nothing surprises me any more,” said Miss Minnie, brushing ashes from her shabby skirt, “but if Mrs. Smith hates sin, she’s lending aid to Sodom and Gomorrah. The sheriff’s been on Jut’s tail for months for everything from rustling beef to coloring corn with iodine.” She sighed. “I reckon the note means Madge will have to go out in the name of the Florida tax payer and harry the poor old soul.”

“Minnie, sometimes I think you’re a renegade at heart. You know perfectly well the public assistance laws say that grants are only temporary measures of relief, and that when a client has an adequate income, he or she is no longer eligible for help.” She paused aghast. “Good Lord, there I go making lecture noises again... To return to Mrs. Smith, Madge is still laid up with the flu, and this job of Mrs. Smith’s — if any — should be checked right off. I don’t like to give you extra work when you’re trying to clear up your load, but I’d appreciate it if you’d stop at Possum Trot and check.” She passed the folder across the desk. “I put the anonymous note in the front. Funny thing, Madge says Mrs. Smith came in about three weeks ago for a raise. Funny, because she’s one of those economical old souls who always seem to manage on their grants. So if she’s had to take a job, something is seriously wrong.”

Miss Minnie nodded. “I’ll read the record, and try to drop by and see her early next week.”

Back in her small cubbyhole Miss Minnie listened for a moment to the murmur of the stenographers’ voices in the big main office next door, the clatter of typewriters, and the slam of filing cabinet drawers. She sighed. She would miss all this, no doubt of it.

She put on her steel-rimmed reading glasses and opened Mrs. Smith’s record. It was thick, dating back to 1932, the ERA days. Mango county had always been a poor county. The only people who hadn’t been on relief at one time or another were a few of the professional men and the big ranchers to the south.

Mrs. Smith’s first contact with the agency had been a note asking for commodities for herself and her twenty-five-year old son. The son had later been certified for WPA, but apparently was shiftless and a troublemaker.

Miss Minnie said, “Tch!” and read steadily through the rest of the record, finishing with the anonymous note.

It didn’t say much, just: “You folks ought to know, Mrs. Annie Smith of Possum Trot has herself a job at Jut’s jook joint,” but Miss Minnie found it absorbing. She reread it several times, then stared unseeingly out of her window at the little Gulf coast town lying clean and tropical in the sun.

Miss Minnie had changed her mind. The note made it necessary for her to visit Mrs. Smith that very afternoon.

She did not reach Possum Trot until after four o’clock. It had been a tough day. Unexpected problems like new babies, sickness, jobs, and leaks in roofs had cropped up. Then she had been delayed some time at Miley’s Crossroad Store by Sheriff Pete Cosey. The sheriff had insisted on telling her in detail his efforts at rounding up the person or gang responsible for three burglaries during the last month.

“I tell you I’ve covered this here county tail and mane, but I ain’t seen a person slick enough to pull off anything like them robberies. I tell you, Miss Minnie, it’s the work of some big-city gang. They got the tools and they’re slick!”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Miss Minnie had murmured, “but you’ll catch them, sheriff.”

Mrs. Annie Smith’s farm was on a sand trail winding off the Tamiami Trail through the piney woods, a weather-beaten clapboard house in an oak grove, the roof blanketed with flame vine. There was a turnip and yam patch to one side, a chicken yard to the other, and an outhouse screened with scarlet bougainvillea behind.

Miss Minnie nosed her shabby sedan to a stop under a chinaberry tree and got out, her dress sticking to her with sweat. Her short thick body ached in every joint from the jarring sand ruts, and her eyes smarted.

“Evening,” an old woman called from the porch. Faded blue eyes smiled from under the brim of a woven palmetto hat, bare brown feet peered from under an old gingham dress.

“Evening.” Miss Minnie forced her tired legs up the path to the porch. “Mrs. Smith? I’m Miss Minnie Boyd from the Welfare Office.”

The old woman’s smile faded. Her small thin body went still. “Why, I’m — I’m real pleased to meet you. Won’t you come in and set?”

“Thanks.” Miss Minnie followed her into the dim living room. How many parlors had she seen like this, the stone fireplace with the shotgun bracketed above, the deer horns, the ponderous family Bible, the stiff family portraits.

One thing was unusual. There were a dozen or more pictures of children cut from magazines tacked on the walls.

Miss Minnie smiled, “I see you’re partial to children.”

Mrs. Smith’s face lighted. “Yes’m, I purely love the lil’ boogers. The way I figger it, us old folks has made a sorry lob-lolly of the world, and I got them pictures tacked up to sort of remind me the Lord still loves this pore sinful race when he lets children go on being born.” She broke off abruptly. “Won’t you set, Ma’m?”

“Thanks.” Miss Minnie avoided a cushioned chair, took a straight one. Welfare workers are taught early to be leery of the small biting things which may lurk in upholstery. “It’s too bad you’re all alone, liking children that way.”

Mrs. Smith took off the palmetto hat and smoothed her white hair. She sat primly on the edge of a chair, feet tucked under her.

“Yes’m, it sure is. I–I reckon you all know, I had a boy. He had him a good job riding range, but he got in a cutting scrape and took off for Tampy. Died ten years back, may the Lord have mercy on him.”

Miss Minnie shook her head sadly, waited a second, and said, “Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Mrs. Smith. I just dropped by to see how you were getting on.”

“Why, I’m toughing it out. I seen Miss Madge last month, and she went over my situation, groceries and kerosene and taxes and clothes and such like as that, and said she couldn’t give me no raise ’cause they hadn’t changed none.”

“That’s what I came to see you about. Mrs. Carlton thought you might have gotten in a tight. I’ll be real honest with you, Mrs. Smith. We got a note this morning saying you were working at Jut’s Place.”

The old lady started up. “Hit’s a lie! I ain’t neither! ’Sides, Preacher Davis would have a pure nanny if he heerd I was messing around a sinbesotten place like that... Anyway, no one would give me work. They — they say I’m too old like.”

So she had been looking for work. Miss Minnie’s face did not indicate this guess. She said, “What do you suppose gave someone the idea you were working at Jut’s?”

“Well — I been there a few times. I ain’t denying that. But it’s only to piece a quilt for a new gal there, Belle.”

“I didn’t know Jut had taken on a new girl. Where’s she from?”

Mrs. Smith’s eyes dropped. She pleated her apron meticulously. “Jut says as how she’s his niece from Jacksonville.”

Miss Minnie said dryly, “Jut sure has a heap of nieces.” She rose. “Well, I guess that’s all.”

Outside the sunshine was brilliant saffron after the dim room. Squirrels and cardinals quarreled in the oaks, a lean gray cat slept among potted plants on the porch rail. A smell of grapes, sharp and aromatic, came from the woods.

Miss Minnie glanced around, thinking again there was no place as peaceful as the scrub. Her gaze fell on the chicken yard, vaguely, then sharpened.

She said, after a moment, “You know, Mrs. Smith, Madge and the other visitors all mentioned a broach you wore, a garnet and pearl pin. I’m real interested in old jewelry. I’d love to see it.”

Red crept under the old woman’s wrinkled face. “Why, I’d sure be proud to show it to you, Miz Boyd, but — but the fact is it’s put away down in my trunk and—”

Miss Minnie said quickly, “That’s all right... Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye. I’m real glad you come. Like I always tell Preacher Davis, there ain’t no one so nice or so smart as you welfare gals.”

Miss Minnie smiled queerly as she drove back along the sand trail. Smart. Well, maybe.

It was nearly five o’clock when she reached town, so she did not bother to go to the office. She drove straight to her boarding house, leaving her car outside. Inside she made a short phone call, hung up the receiver looking thoughtful, then took it down again. She gave a number.

“Selma? This is Minnie. I’m calling from home. I’m not coming back to the office, because I’ve got to make a visit this evening... I saw Mrs. Smith.”

“Well, that was quick. Is she working?”

“She says not. She says she’s been to Jut’s Place, but only to piece a quilt for one of the hostesses, a ‘niece’ of Jut’s. She’s been looking for a job though; she let it out unintentionally.”

“Why, I always thought she managed so well on her grant and what she made from her chickens.”

“That’s something else. The record says she’s always had a lot of chickens. When Madge saw her last month, she had about sixty. I looked today. Now she’s only got about two dozen.”

“Did you ask her what happened to the others?”

“No, because I learned something else. She doesn’t have that garnet and pearl broach of hers any more.”

“Minnie—”

“Just a second. There’s something else. The record said she was a pretty constant snuff dipper. She told one visitor that outside of church, snuff was her one pleasure in life. Well, she didn’t use it today, and what’s more, she hasn’t for several days. There weren’t any stains on her lips or fingers.”

“I gather you’re saying she needs money, and that she’s sold the chickens and broach.”

“Uh-huh, but I made a final check to be sure. I just phoned her preacher. She’s an Adventist, you know, and those folks believe in tithing one-tenth of their income to the church. Well, Preacher Davis says Mrs. Smith hasn’t been to church — or tithed — in a month.”

“Minnie — now hold your horses. You’re about to get me all worked up. So she needs money. Well, she’s not the first client who did — so what are you getting so tense about?”

Miss Minnie rubbed her smarting eyes, said slowly, “I think the old lady’s in trouble. That’s why I thought I’d take a run out to Jut’s tonight.”

“Minnie, that’s not necessary! You can just as well wait until next week.”

“I don’t think so. You know that anonymous letter we got?”

“What about it?”

“Did you notice the handwriting? Mrs. Smith wrote it herself.”

Jut’s Place was on the Tamiami Trail, a few miles south of town. It was about seven o’clock, still light, when Miss Minnie nosed her sedan to a stop in the parking lot, between a mule cart and a 1929 Dodge.

Friday night was Mango county’s night to howl. There were already a sprinkle of cars in the lot, and several horses stood patient and dusty by the hitching rail. A red neon sign flashed on the roof, and Bad Blood Blues blared from the jook organ.

Miss Minnie paused at the hitching rail to pat a familiar black and white pinto. “Hi, feller, Jimmie Bee here already?”

The pinto whinnied, and Miss Minnie went on in.

The jook was a square, clapboard building with high naked rafters, dimly lit. Most of it was given over to tables and booths surrounding a railed-in dance floor and a blaring jook organ. Off to one side was a small, dim bar. Miss Minnie, gray-haired and respectably shabby, headed for it.

The tall lantern-jawed cracker behind the bar looked up as she entered. There was a black stubble on his chin and a matching black rim under his nails. His small bloodshot eyes widened, then narrowed.

“Well, Miss Minnie, I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age,” he said in a high nasal voice, sidling forward. “Where you been?”

Miss Minnie laid her worn purse on the bar, said dryly: “Now don’t go making out I’m a customer of this snake-hole of yours, Jut.”

A downy-faced young cowboy down the bar leaned forward, his thin.face a-grin under a half-bushel pumpkin hat.

“Hi, Miss Minnie, you taking to jooking?”

“You keep a soft tongue in your head, Jimmie Bee... I saw your pinto outside.”

The young cowboy said proudly, “Purtiest hoss in the county.”

Jut moved restively. “Now, Miss Minnie, I wasn’t throwing off on you. I was jes cur’ous how come you was here.”

Miss Minnie ignored him, looking at the waitresses scurrying across the dance floor, serving customers. She spotted a new face.

“I see you got yourself a new ‘niece,’ Jut.”

The jook man’s face was sullen. He laid huge knobby hands on the bar, powerful veined hands that were out of keeping with his pale gauntness.

“Now, listen, Miss Minnie, you ain’t got nothing on me concerning Belle. She’s her own woman, full-growed, with a kid. If you’re figuring on raising sand—”

“I’m not figuring on raising anything. Give me a coke, then call her over.”

The man hesitated, then slowly got a bottled coke out of the ice chest, opened it, and slid it forward. His eyes slid furtively to Miss Minnie’s placid sun-burned face, slid away. He raised his voice over the blare of the jook organ.

“Belle! Hey, Belle, c’m in here, will you?”

The blonde girl turned from a booth and leisurely sauntered into the bar, balancing a tray of empty bottles and glasses on her shoulder. She was in her early thirties, hard lines around her mouth, her hair platinum-blonde, a spit curl on one temple. Her skin was dark, and there were brown stains under her black eyes.

“What you want, Jut?”

Jut jerked his head. “Miss Minnie Boyd from the Welfare Office. She wanted to meet you.”

The woman stared at Miss Minnie, slammed her tray on the bar. She swung back, glaring, a hand on her hip. “Now, listen, you nosy busybody, if it’s about the kid, I’ll have you know she’s going to school every day and—”

Miss Minnie said equably, “It’s not. Do you know a Mrs. Annie Smith?”

The girl hesitated, said warily, “I’ve met her.”

Miss Minnie said mendaciously, “She says she’s making some dresses for you. I just wanted to check on it.”

The girl stared and burst into harsh laughter. “Sure, she’s making some dresses for me. Seeing as how I ain’t been able to get to Maas Brothers lately, she’s been whipping me up a coupla bungalow aprons. So what?”

Miss Minnie smiled. “Why, nothing. Thanks.”

The girl hesitated, a line between her thin black brows. Jut leaned forward.

“Belle, there’s one of them cowboys heading this way, wanting to ask you to dance.”

The girl cursed briefly, “Those cowboys and their high heels—” She plunged through a curtained doorway behind the bar.

The cowboy, a hulking youth in dusty jeans, with the slack wet-lipped appearance of one who has drunk too many whiskeys with lemon-pop chasers, halted and made his slow way back to the dance floor.

Jut leaned forward grinning. “Belle just purely hates dancing with cowboys. She—” He broke off, glaring at the corner of the bar. “Bessie, what you doing down here? Ain’t your Ma and me told you to stay upstairs? You march yourself right back up, you hear?”

Miss Minnie turned. A small girl was standing at the corner of the bar, a grave-eyed child of about seven, her black hair skinned back in two pigtails, thin shoulders erect and sturdy in a too-small dress.

Her voice came in a grave treble. “I got lonesome. I heard the music—”

“Ne’ mind that! You git!”

The child turned and mounted the flight of stairs behind the bar which led, Miss Minnie knew, to some shabby rooms upstairs.

She turned her eyes to Jut. “Belle’s child?”

“Yeah.”

The jook was filling up rapidly, the screen door slamming as new couples came in. A solitary cowboy entered the bar. He resembled a dozen others: the slightly bowed shoulders, the faded dungarees tucked into high-heeled boots, the shambling gait. His face was hidden in the shadow of the wide-brimmed black slouch hat pulled low over his eyes.

He mounted a stool in the shadows at the end of the bar, tucking gloves into his belt. He beckoned Jut, muttered:

“Scotch and water.”

Jut nodded and poured him a drink from a dusty bottle. Miss Minnie glanced at the strong hands matted with black hair, the thick jaw half-turned from her. Black hair curled from under the hat in back.

Miss Minnie got up. Jut came forward.

“On the house, Miss Minnie.”

Miss Minnie said dryly, “Thanks, I’ll pay.” She put a nickel on the bar, gestured. “Who’s the new cowpoke?”

Jut shrugged. “Calls hisself Arcadia. Reckon he’s from down that way.”

The curtained doorway rippled, and Belle reappeared. She seemed to have regained her good humor. She was smiling a little and humming a song. Her black eyes fell on the cowboy, and she stopped abruptly.

“Well,” she said shrilly. “It’s high time you got here. Where you been? You know the joint gets crowded this late. Look, I got some more dough—”

The man muttered, “Shut up!” He rose, grasped her arm. “Come on,” and he shoved her up the stairs.

Miss Minnie went outside, pocketbook under her arm. Darkness had closed down on the scrub, and the night was filled with the smell of night-blooming jasmine and smoke. The moon rode low over the pines.

The neon sign on the jook lighted the parking lot. Miss Minnie passed slowly down the line of horses, patting the pinto. A new horse was tied to the rail, a sturdy bay, dusty and drooping. Miss Minnie put a gentle hand on his neck, edged him into the light. A Bar W brand was burned on his left flank. That was Jess Whidden’s outfit, twelve miles south. No wonder the horse looked tired.

Suddenly Miss Minnie grinned in the dark. “Bay,” she drawled, “you look mighty beat-down. You belong to have a little rest.”

She untied him and coaxed him back through the lot. A little path ran down into the woods behind the jook. Miss Minnie led the horse some distance along the path, then tied him to a tree. She patted him again and returned to her car.

She had to wait half an hour, but finally the swarthy cowboy appeared. He started for the hitching rail, halted abruptly. Miss Minnie could not see his face, but the curse came dearly. The man hesitated a moment, glancing about, appeared to think. Then he moved swiftly toward the horses, looked them over, and unhitched the pinto. A moment later drumming hoofs vanished in the dark.

Miss Minnie nodded and got out of the car. Jut looked up in surprise as she re-entered the bar.

“I forgot to make a phone call,” she explained, and went into the booth in the corner, carefully closing the door after her.

She made two of them. When she finally emerged, she stood for a moment rubbing her eyes, tiredness weighing her down. She did not even see one of her ADC children, a fifteen-year-old girl, hastily ducking into the shadows.

She got her car, drove straight home, and went to bed.

The next morning she was a little late for the office. She stopped to get a copy of the Tampa Morning News, and walking slowly, scanned the front page. One item especially interested her. She mounted the grimy staircase to the Welfare Office, reading it.

The senior stenographer met her at the door, her florid face worried.

“Minnie Boyd, what you been up to anyway? Mrs. Carlton has been sending out calls for you every two minutes, and the sheriff is in her office, just yelling.”

Miss Minnie tucked the paper under her arm. “I’ll go right in.”

She knocked on Mrs. Carlton’s door and pushed it open. Mrs. Carlton was sitting upright at her desk, her handsome brow furrowed, watching Sheriff Pete Cosey striding up and down the office slaving his arms.

“... like I said, all I know is I got this call from Minnie and she said a cowboy had stole Jimmie Bee’s pinto and was riding back to the Whidden ranch on him. She said to waylay him a couple miles south of the ranch before he could abandon the horse, and to watch out because he was dangerous. So that’s what me and Doxie done — and dang if she wasn’t right! The bugger done just like she said. When me and Doxie hailed him, he went for a gun. Doxie winged him, and then we closed in and searched him. You could have knocked me flatter’n a gopher when we found out who he was.”

Miss Minnie said, “The Tampa paper says he was Zed Adams, alias several names, wanted for murdering a bolita agent last month, but I didn’t get a chance to read—”

The sheriff spun. “By God, Minnie Boyd, if I hadn’t knowed you fifteen years, I’d swear you’d been holding out on me. How come you knowed that feller was a crook — that him and that wife of his, Belle, was wanted in Tampa?”

Miss Minnie sat down across from Mrs. Carlton who was regarding her with a quizzical gaze. “Well, I knew Belle was Spanish. Her hair was bleached, but you can’t hide that olive skin and those brown stains some Spanish folks have under their eyes. And of course she had a buscanovio.”

The sheriff said, “Bus — what?”

“Buscanovio. It’s a spit curl some Spanish girls wear on their temples. It’s called a looking-for-a-sweetheart curl.”

The sheriff drew a breath. Miss Minnie went on. “And of course I knew he wasn’t a real cowboy from Arcadia. For one thing, he was wearing real expensive leather gloves. Most cowboys don’t bother much with fripperies like that — especially expensive ones. Then — well, did you ever hear of a cracker cowboy ordering Scotch?”

Mrs. Carlton said wistfully, “In my heyday I dated a few cowboys. It was always beer, or rum, gin or corn washed down with cokes or pop.”

“So it was a safe bet they came from a city, probably Tampa. The girl mentioned Maas Brothers department store there. Then before I called you, sheriff, I phoned Jess Whidden. He said he’d hired Arcadia a month ago. It seemed more than a coincidence that Belle and a new cowboy showed up here around the time we were having some big-town type burglaries... I saw in the paper that Zed — or Arcadia — served time in Raiford for breaking and entering.”

The sheriff said, “That still wasn’t no proof he was a crook, all them guesses.”

“Well, I wondered why two city folks were burying themselves in the country, and it seemed a safe bet they were hiding out from something. Why not the law? So when I went outside, I hid his horse. If he had been a real cowboy with nothing to hide, he would have raised hell. Instead he simply swiped Jimmie’s pinto and took off without a word. So then I was sure.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Carlton,” the senior stenographer stuck her head in the door, “Mrs. Annie Smith is outside to see Miss Boyd, and she’s looking so funny—”

Miss Minnie rose quickly. “I’d best see her.” She glanced at the sheriff. He was wiping his face. Mrs. Carlton grinned and nodded. “But come back when you’re finished, Minnie.”

Mrs. Smith sat on the edge of one of the waiting-room benches, hands knotted in her lap. She got up as Miss Minnie appeared, her eyes imploring. Today she had changed the palmetto hat and gingham dress for a black straw and old black alpaca with a crocheted collar.

“I... I went to Jut’s this morning — to see about the quilt — and I heard — I heard—”

Miss Minnie laid a hand on the thin shoulder. “You don’t have anything more to worry about. The sheriff caught both Zed and Belle. They’ll be returned to Tampa, and they’ll both go to Raiford for good long stretches.”

Mrs. Smith’s face fell into her hands, her shoulders shook convulsively. Miss Minnie waited. Finally the old woman raised a quivering, tear-stained face.

“I... I didn’t know what to do. I would have told the sheriff, but I didn’t rightly know just what him and Belle had done; they never let on. Jes’ kept a-hounding me for money. I knowed you welfare gals were smart and could figger out something, and — now little Bessie is all alone—”

“Mrs. Smith, I bet the agency will figure you’re just what little Bessie needs now her Ma and Pa are gone. We’ll fix it so you can have her, and we’ll fix it to raise your grant so you can take care of her, too.” Miss Minnie finished soberly. “You’re a brave woman, Mrs. Smith.”

When she returned to Mrs. Carlton’s office, the sheriff was gone and the supervisor was smoking a cigarette, her elegant legs crossed.

She said, “Miss Minnie, I’m a fool.” She touched a case record. “I got Mrs. Smith’s case out of your office, and I’ve been looking at it. That crook, Zed Adams — the sheriff said he was sent up ten years ago for breaking and entering.” She hesitated. “Mrs. Smith’s son died ten years ago—”

“He was dead to her — with her religion. And it was quite a shock to her after all these years when he turned up suddenly with a wife and child. She didn’t know what he’d done, but she knew something was wrong, and she was distracted — not for herself or him — but for the child.”

“Why do you suppose he picked a ranch for a hide-out? He was raised here. You’d think someone would have recognized him.”

“He’d been gone fifteen years, and I guess he took good care to keep out of people’s way. He stayed in the shadow at the bar, and Jess Whidden said he kept to himself.”

“I suppose Mrs. Smith sold the broach and chickens, scraped up all the money she could for the child.”

“Yes, Zed and Belle were collecting money for a real getaway — hence, the robberies. They left Tampa broke, and they used the child to get money from Mrs. Smith. Zed knew how his mother always felt about children.”

Mrs. Carlton ran a hand through her modish hair-do, her eyes twinkling.

“Minnie, do you realize you’ve just undermined the reason you gave for resigning? It was those pecky little bits of information you’ve collected for fifteen years that helped you figure this thing out.”

Miss Minnie rubbed her nose ruefully. “Well, even a blind hog stumbles on a few acorns occasionally.”

Mrs. Carlton said, “There’s still just one thing I don’t understand — why Mrs. Smith sent us that anonymous note about having a job at Jut’s.”

Miss Minnie grinned, and snapped a bobby pin around her cigarette stub. “Mrs. Smith’s a smart woman — and she’s known the State Welfare Board for a long time. She knew nothing would send us prying and digging quicker than the news that a client had a job — and was still getting assistance. She knew when it came to a question of money, this agency purely root-hog, or dies.”