Sweet and Deadly aka Dead Dog

10

THE MULTITUDE OF Monday’s revelations had worn Catherine down. She slept heavily, despite the Perkins’s coffee, and woke groggy.

Tuesday, like Monday, began off-center. She overslept by ten minutes, an irritating breach of her workday morning routine. To make up the time, she had to scramble into her clothes while the coffee was perking, and skip a cup of that coffee. She promised herself to make up for it at the office, from the big urn kept continuously filled in the production room.

The telephone rang while she was making her bed. She was back on schedule and in a better humor, so instead of assuming that the call would be dire news, she predicted some mild disturbance, which was what it proved to be.

“My damn car’s in the shop,” Tom said without preamble. “Can you give me a ride to work?”

“Sure, come on over,” Catherine replied promptly.

This had happened before. Tom’s ancient Volkswagen, noisy and battle-scarred, was subject to drastic breakdowns and expensive repairs.

Catherine was at the back door to let him in when he knocked.

“I was just about ready to leave, I’m glad you caught me,” she said, checking her purse to make sure she had her keys.

“No telling how much it’s going to cost this time,” Tom said gloomily. “I took it over to Don’s Garage after work yesterday, and he said he’d bring it by this morning. Said it was nothing hard to fix, he could do it in a couple of hours.”

“That’s what Don always says,” Catherine told him.

“Why?” asked Tom, outraged. “If he had just told me he’d have to keep it, I could have called you last night.”

“He just likes people to leave happy,” Catherine said. “That’s the way Don is. I’m surprised you hadn’t caught on to that by now, as much trouble as you’ve had with that car.

“At least,” she added as they walked to her garage, “it’ll be fixed when you do get it back.”

“I have plans for tonight, so he better get his ass in gear,” Tom said, folding himself into Catherine’s front seat. She wondered, not for the first time, how he managed in the Volkswagen.

“I doubt he will,” Catherine warned.

Tom sulked all the way to the office. That was fine with Catherine, who didn’t feel like idle chatter before nine o’clock at the earliest.

Leila was looking out the front window when Catherine pulled into a parking space miraculously open in front of the Gazette office. Usually the courthouse people took all the good spots, arriving early to stake their claims. Her little triumph dissolved into a flat feeling when she saw Leila’s face become woebe-gone at the sight of the two of them arriving together.

By the time Catherine and Tom came in through the glass door that had “Lowfield Gazette” stenciled across it in gothic lettering, Leila was sitting rigidly erect at her typewriter behind the counter, pounding the keys furiously.

What a temper she’s got, Catherine thought, passing through the little reception room without a word. She wanted to go up to Leila and shake her by the shoulders.

She realized belatedly that Tom had not followed her into the reporters’ room. She heard the whisper of voices behind her. It looked as if Tom and Leila were getting together. Maybe Leila was Tom’s “plans for the evening.”

Catherine made a wry face at her typewriter and then shrugged. The paper would go to press that afternoon, and would be delivered the next morning. There was a lot to do before the noon deadline.

She began checking over what she had written the day before. Jewel had left the proofs on her desk. Catherine had to proofread all her own stories, then pass them back to Production to be reread by Sarah, the paste-up girl, before she placed them on the page. Catherine got out her felt-tipped pen and settled down to work. Tom came in after a moment with a smug look on his thin face.

The feathers are sticking out of your mouth, she told him silently, and then was distracted by a cathedral-length bridal “vail.”

Almost to Catherine’s surprise, and certainly to her relief, the morning passed as quietly as Tuesday mornings ever did at the Gazette. The usual last-minute crises came up, but Catherine was braced for them. A bride’s picture was flipped, so her ring appeared on her right hand. Catherine caught that and set it to rights. The weekly Dr. Croft column was missing, and because of its great popularity with Lowfield subscribers, the search for it was a tense one. It was always pasted up days before the paper was due to come out, since it arrived set at the correct column width and had only to be cut off a sheet containing seven other Dr. Croft columns, each one headed with a line drawing of the handsome and fatherly doctor.

“Dr. Croft’s Corner” had been unpopular with Catherine’s father. Every time she read it, she recalled his indignation and impatience when two or three people came to his office after the appearance of each column, sure they had the disease Dr. Croft had expounded on that week.

Catherine wondered for a moment whether Jerry Selforth had the same problem.

At last sharp-eyed Jewel found the missing column. The wax holding it to the page had weakened, and the fan had blown it under the paste-up table. Catherine, with dirty hands and knees after taking an active part in the search, rose from the floor and repaired immediately to the Gazette’s rather dreadful ladies’ room to clean up.

Leila, she noted sourly, had kept her own golden limbs pristine by promptly recalling some bills that had to be sent out, at the moment the column was discovered missing.

Tom was slumped at his desk when Catherine emerged from the ladies’ room.

“I must have called the sheriff ’s office ten times,” he complained, “and I always get the redneck queen, Mary Jane Cory. ‘I’m sorry, Sheriff Galton is out. I’m sorry, Sheriff Galton is with someone right now.’ I keep hearing all these rumors about Leona’s past, and I want a quote from him on that!”

Catherine considered. She was a little pleased to know something Tom didn’t know. She thought, He’d throttle me if he knew I was withholding a tidbit from him.

She almost told Tom to go ask Leila about the truth of what he had heard, but she knew she would never forgive herself if she did. As long as he had heard the rumors, though. She had a mischievous impulse.

“Go talk to Salton Sims,” she said, pokerfaced. “Salton knows something.”

“If I voluntarily talk to Salton, I must be dedicated,” Tom said grimly, and set out, with pad and pencil in hand, to locate the pressman.

Catherine almost laughed out loud. But her little moment of mischief promptly fizzled when she glanced down at her desk and saw a hole for a picture on her sketch of the society page. The space hadn’t been crossed by the large “X” she drew whenever she sent a picture back to the offset darkroom.

“Omigod,” she said guiltily. She had forgotten to call the Barnes house to remind them to deliver their grandchild’s picture for today’s paper. She had picked up the phone to dial, casting a quick glance at the clock on the wall as she did so (it was an hour from the deadline), when Martin Barnes himself came through the front door and into the reception area.

Catherine heard Leila directing him to the reporters’ room-not that he needed much direction, since Catherine was in clear view-and then the planter was advancing across the worn carpet to stand before her desk. Catherine was self-conscious because of the conversation she had had with Jewel the day before. She examined Mr. Barnes covertly for signs of a romantic soul, but there he was: four-square Martin Barnes.

“How are you, Catherine?” he said mildly. “Haven’t seen you to talk to in a coon’s age.”

Mr. Barnes’s weathered but still handsome face expressed nothing but polite pleasure. Before Catherine could say anything, he went on. “I sure was surprised when Jimmy Gallon came out to my place yesterday. I didn’t think it was so all-fired important that I was on the same road where Leona got dumped.”

Catherine fluttered her hand in a meaningless gesture. She wished she hadn’t sent Tom off on a wild-goose chase to interview Salton Sims. She had a second to think, That’s what I get for being catty, before Barnes, slowly collecting his thoughts, began to ruminate again.

“I told him I was just out riding my land, same as I always do early in the morning,” Barnes said, looking at Catherine significantly. “Well, little Catherine Linton saw me, Jimmy says, and right afterward she found something nasty, something mighty bad. Course, by then I had heard about old Leona Gaites at church, so it wasn’t no surprise to me.”

Catherine could think of no conceivable response. Her reputation for silence was serving her well, she decided, for Barnes didn’t seem to expect a reply.

“And I said to him, ‘Sure, I saw that gal.’” Barnes went on slowly. “I wondered at it, too, her being out so early on a Saturday morning. First time in my life the police ever come by my house to ask me questions. Parked in front of my house, for everyone to see.” He sounded mildly resentful, but Catherine couldn’t decide whether or not the resentment was aimed at her. “Melba ’bout went wild,” he added glumly.

She wondered if Jewel had had time to report their conversation of yesterday to her lover.

“First time the police have ever been at my house, too,” Catherine said, with a poor imitation of brightness. “And the last time, I hope.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Tom stalk into the room and cast a look of utter disgust in her direction. He threw his pad and pencil on his desk and walked directly out again. Catherine saw him lean on the counter in Leila’s office, and heard the murmur of their voices.

No help from that quarter. Tom would happily let Martin Barnes talk her to death in retaliation for her sending him to Salton Sims to discover that Leona was “godless.”

At least Barnes was smiling at her faint joke. He reached inside his pocket and drew out a photograph.

“Here’s my picture of Chrissy for the paper,” he explained carefully. “My first grandchild, you know.” The planter beamed.

Catherine eyed the picture. It was even worse than the usual run of photos handed in to the Gazette for such celebrations. For one thing, it was in color, which reproduced poorly in the Gazette; Randall couldn’t afford expensive color ink. For another thing, the little girl was slumped sideways in her highchair at practically a right angle, and her stare was woefully blank: no cute smile, no expression at all. Little Chrissy’s goggle eyes and gape were ludicrous in combination with the gay party hat, with its crepe pompon that had unwisely been strapped to the child’s head.

“Cute kid,” said Catherine faintly.

“Looks just like her grandpa, Sally says.”

That triggered laughter in Catherine, who decided that Martin was maligning himself. He was still a good-looking man, and this baby-Catherine bit the inside of her mouth ferociously, to keep from bursting into unforgivable giggles.

“Thanks for bringing it in,” she managed, her voice only slightly choked. “I’ll take it to the back right away, so it’ll be in the paper when you get it tomorrow.”

“We’re looking forward to it,” he assured her earnestly. “See you some other time, Catherine. I hope we don’t meet out in the fields no more.”

Catherine looked up from the picture sharply, but Barnes was already walking out. He had to turn sideways to edge through the reception room, for the little area had become crowded during their conversation.

Tom was still leaning over the counter talking to Leila, Carl Perkins was standing nearby with a folder in his hands that must contain his enterprises’ ads for the coming week, and, Catherine saw with a thud, Sheriff Galton was leaning against the wall with an air of infinite patience. Mrs. Weilenmann was standing with Randall in the doorway of his office, deep in discussion.

When Tom straightened up from the counter and turned to see who was behind him, his whole body stiffened (like a bird dog, Catherine thought), as he realized that the object of his phone calls was within reach. Catherine couldn’t hear what he said, but she saw Galton shake his head, smiling, as Tom’s mouth moved nonstop.

Tom went on talking, and Galton shook his head again, with less of a smile. Tom was being persistent. As usual, Mr. Perkins turned away, trying to appear uninvolved in their exchange. Randall and Mrs. Weilenmann finished their talk, and, as the librarian worked her way out of the knot of people, Randall ushered Galton into his office.

It was the first time she had seen Randall that day. He caught a glimpse of her face and gave her a quick wave.

Catherine smiled back. Mrs. Weilenmann, noticing her at the same time, assumed the smile was for her. She raised a hand in greeting.

As Catherine looked at the knot of familiar faces, her smile suddenly stiffened. One of these, she thought. Maybe one of these people…She saw an anonymous arm rising and falling, saw blood pouring through gray hair.

Why? she wondered frantically. Why? The nightmare was before her eyes again, all the more horrible in this hot, sun-drenched, normal room. I’ll face it, she decided. I have to face it squarely.

She looked at the worst.

Randall, who had the strength of an athlete. His reason: Leona’s threats to expose his father’s acceptance of a bribe. But, Catherine rebutted swiftly, he told me about that himself, when he certainly didn’t need to. She then considered Randall’s mother, Angel, for the same reason, but she knew Miss Angel was not physically strong enough to kill someone in the way Leona had been killed.

Sheriff Galton. His son was selling drugs. The shame of it would break James Galton, privately and publicly, if it became generally known. And Leona had had a habit of finding things out.

Mrs. Weilenmann, that sad and misplaced woman. Her rumored white husband was supposed to have been a lawyer. Why would such a woman return to the South, where she was neither fish nor fowl? Catherine had always imagined that a long sad story was buried behind those dignified toffee-colored features.

Tom had resumed his conversation with Leila. If Leona had seen Tom buying dope Friday night…A drug conviction would bar him from ever holding another reporting job. Reporters were too thick on the ground now for any editor to have to consider hiring a risk.

Leila? Catherine almost dismissed Leila offhand. But to be fair, she paused to consider her. After all, Leila had admittedly had criminal contact with Leona Gaites. But, like Randall, she seemed to be cleared by that very admission. Of course, Leila’s father was a pillar of a fundamentalist church. I just don’t know what Mr. Masham might do, if he knew his baby had gotten pregnant and had an abortion, Catherine thought.

And, of course, there were Martin Barnes and Jewel Crenna, the illicit couple.

This has gone far enough, Catherine told herself savagely, trying to arrange her face so it would have some semblance of normality for Mr. Perkins, who had dropped off his folder at Leila’s desk and was coming toward her. I could add Carl and Molly Perkins, Salton Sims…Maybe I have blackouts and did it myself…Maybe the Drummonds aren’t in Europe at all, but hiding out secretly in their house!

“Are you all right?”

Or none of the above, Catherine concluded before she looked up.

“Yes sir,” she said. “I just had some bad thoughts.”

“I guess we’ve all had them lately,” Mr. Perkins said sadly. “Molly and I just wanted to know if you’d come over to supper at our house tonight. You can bring your boyfriend if you want to. Molly and I would sure like to get to know him better.”

“Know him better?” Catherine was sure her jaw had gone slack with astonishment. What was this new kite of rumor sailing through the Lowfield sky?

“Your tenant,” said Mr. Perkins with a trace of uncertainty in his voice. He bobbed his head backward in Tom’s direction.

“He’s just my tenant,” Catherine said definitely. She smiled one of the killer smiles Southern women are taught. “I’m so sorry I won’t be able to come over tonight. I’m way behind on everything I have to do at home.”

“We’re sure sorry you can’t come,” Mr. Perkins said, flinching almost visibly, unable to apologize for fear of getting in deeper. “But if you get nervous about being on your lonesome, you just come right on over.”

“Sure will,” Catherine responded with absolute insincerity.

She watched her neighbor walk away. I guess I nipped that in the bud, she thought with some satisfaction.

The reception area had emptied while Catherine was talking with Mr. Perkins. She was glad. She wanted no more talk, no more suspicion. She wanted to work and be ignored. She quickly delivered baby Chrissy’s picture to the darkroom, earning a glower from the camera operator because of its late arrival.

Leila was at her desk humming as she stapled statements to checks when Catherine passed through on her way to lunch. The girl looked almost elevated, as if she had received a call to a higher duty. Tom was evidently living up to his image in Leila’s eyes. Catherine paused, wondering what Tom was going to do about lunch, since his car was in the shop; but she saw him through the plate-glass window crossing the courthouse lawn, headed toward the sandwich shop on the other side of the square. She supposed he was getting lunch for himself and Leila.

Catherine decided to go home rather than buy a sandwich. She would definitely be a third wheel.

As she drove, she tried to remember what the refrigerator contained that she could fix quickly.

The only raw ingredient around was lettuce. After eating a limp and unsatisfactory salad, Catherine was assembling a grocery list at the kitchen table when the telephone rang. As she reached up to answer it, she wondered who would be calling her at noon.

The voice that came over the line was so choked as to be almost unrecognizable.

“What are you doing with Martin, you little bitch? What do you mean, getting him into trouble?”

“Mrs. Barnes?” asked Catherine unbelievingly.

Her only answer was a few hiccuping sounds that could have been sobs.

My God, Catherine thought blankly.

“What are you talking about?” she ventured, into a silence so taut she imagined she could feel it vibrating. Melba Barnes, my fellow colorful Southern eccentric, Catherine thought wearily.

“I wanted to catch you at home, you little sneak, not down at the paper office where your little friend Tom Mascalco could listen in and laugh at me, too.”

By now Catherine was recovering from her initial shock. Anger made her blood pump faster.

She had had enough.

Enough of Sheriff Galton’s admonitions; enough of Jewel’s hints about keeping her mouth shut, and Leila’s nasty little confidences; enough mysterious half-threats from Martin Barnes; enough of the dark dealings of Leona Gaites.

In a careful low voice, she said, “I don’t know what the hell you are implying, Mrs. Barnes. But I can tell you that I resent your tone and this entire conversation. Now if you have something to tell me, tell me and then shut up. Because if you ever repeat your suspicions to anyone else in this town, I will slap a lawsuit on you so fast your head will swim.”

Another awful hiccup-sob.

“What were you and Martin doing in that shack, anyway? You told the police you saw him out there. I saw him in your office today, through that big window. I saw him talking to you. I knew then he had been lying about riding around the place. I’ve known for a long time he’s been carrying on, but I never thought it would be with a girl his daughter’s age!”

Catherine closed her eyes and leaned against the wall by the telephone. Yesterday, according to Jewel, Melba Barnes had suspected Leona; today, it was Catherine.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, unaware that she had spoken out loud, until Mrs. Barnes gave a snort on the other end.

“Mrs. Barnes,” Catherine said, in a voice so controlled and furious that she almost frightened herself, “I have no interest in your husband at all. I have never met him anywhere by prearrangement. I passed him by chance on a dirt road Saturday morning.” Catherine had to resist a powerful temptation to tell her where her husband had been (Jewel should be the recipient of this blast, not me!). “When Sheriff Galton asked me if I had seen anyone, I told him I had seen Mr. Barnes. He was in his pickup and I was in my car. We were going in opposite directions. This morning he came by the office to give me your grandchild’s picture to put in the newspaper. I think,” Catherine ended heavily, “that you are crazy, and this whole conversation, if you can call it that, is disgusting.” Then she hung the phone firmly on the wall.

The whole thing struck Catherine as being so sordid that she shook her fingers, as if to shake off the dirt transmitted by the telephone.

Catherine Linton, femme fatale, she thought wryly, when she had become a little calmer. Leila thought Tom and I were lovers; Carl Perkins, too. Now Mrs. Barnes thinks I’ve been screwing her dumb husband on the floor of a shack, with a dead woman beside us.

As she locked up the house, Catherine decided that today she didn’t like anyone very much. She included herself in the group.

Leona’s murder is like kicking over an anthill, she thought. Everyone is scurrying to get under new cover, treading over each other in their haste to escape exposure.