Chapter 1: Sunday Was a Bore
March and September on the Llano, and a few weeks on either side of, have similar natures in a twin-sisters of a bleak Mother sort of way. Windy, arid, and bedecked in three hues of brown from delicate red to vulgar gray. Unremarkable really, except for artists and people of more sensitive natures who see and feel the array of hues. Cedar Post High School has an art class and an annual Color Codes Contest. The School Board, an assortment of local pillars, awards students who creatively re-code colors based on precise local flora, fauna, and geological materials. Whereas the quantity of natural features on a high desert is staggering, students’ minds range from basketball to food to sex, in any order of three. Last Spring, the class of 1951 chose Beave as the winner; he re-coded ‘medium grayish brown with a cool undertone’ as Grandma Pritchard’s Shrubbery. George Pritchard, who as the school’s elderly principal and a Cedar Post Pillar, held a dim and dour view. Art class was suspended pending the Board’s investigation.
Their art teacher, Miss Juel of Juel’s Crown Clothiers fortune, rejoices that her students thrive on the class plein air project for learning brown color codes. The Board summoned Miss Juel about the incident; they warned Miss Juel to squash the joy as it can lead to nothing academically advantageous. Miss Juel came to Cedar Post straight from Texas State Normal School in 1949, aspiring marriage and artistic muse. As the newest resident, few of the deep-rooted folks appreciate Miss Juel’s zeal. They wince.
To the deep-rooted dwellers of Cedar Post and the greater tri-county area, hope and zeal are kissing-cousins whose fantasy is tenuous. Brown is the color of the sky when wind tosses tilled earth and the color when the wind withers the Llano Estacado natural grasses. Hope is how desert and high plains dwellers greet March…hope for soaking rains, early spring planting, and lots of babies. Hope equally welcomes late summer and early fall…hope for lower temperatures and good harvests. But Hope is Regret in pearls and pajamas. March is often a storm of fruit bud-killing snow blizzards and unstoppable southwesterly winds that dry morning dew and crack human resolve, which explains the inflexibility of Cedar Post folks. September is likewise a storm of extremes and surprises, which explains their dogmatism. Survival is not about craving or passion. Survival is about conceit. If one is unwilling to weaponize their desire for a situation, one is likely to lose the situation.
From her front garden where she tends to rose bushes, Miss Clarke wickedly tosses the tumbleweeds which had bounced over her fence and watches the worshippers who exit First Baptist Church. Just outside the entrance, a select few -- elite or desperate -- gather around the preacher and his wife. Other faithful folk hurry away. Some with canes step carefully along gravel walks. Children chase each other until they hear familiar adult voices calling them away. Miss Clarke glances occasionally at the stragglers while fully committed to her garden chores. On this Sunday March morning, she relishes the calm hours.
“Good morning, Miss Clarke. How are you feeling? Heard that you were put down last week with a fever. We lifted you in prayer during our ladies’ Bible class. You must save your strength and hire my boy to do these outdoor chores.” Vocal emphases on put down and lifted; pauses on heard and my boy. The Mmes. Schwartz, one the wife of a living Mr. Schwartz and the other, a widowed sister-in-law, speak as one person. And as in-laws with identical mindset often do, the old girls look alike, from puffy feet stuffed into polished brogans to hats with veil fascinators, wrinkle-enhancing face powder, and a lingering soured fruity redolence.
Miss Clarke approaches the picket fence in slow motion while they empty thoughts upon her. Then she responds, “Good morning to you. I came outdoors for a few hours before the March Lion chases me inside.” She faces the Mmes. Schwartz. They squint, adjust their Sunday hats and raise gloved hands to shade their eyes. “Although I was ill for a few days, I was not put down. I rested. And I thank you for praying for my good health. I feel much better after resting and consuming plenty of hot liquids.”
“Our prayers were answered. Have you heard that Mrs. Gallegos is back in town? We saw her step off the Tuesday noon Greyhound. Which means that she arrived here from the Albuquerque direction. But Louis, her poor, poor husband, said that she went to Texas before Christmas. Miss Juel was not in church this morning. It’s no wonder that she wants to hide. You know of course that her engagement to Mr. Pritchard is over. Saw her at the grocer’s Friday afternoon without the ring on her finger. I hope she kept it. Certainly not! It belongs to the Pritchard ranch. Well. Promises made; promises broken. We’ll walk by her house. The extra two blocks will whet your appetite, Jeanine. And the preacher’s wife regularly receives parcels from Chicago. Why should she when her family lives down Roswell way? No need to ask. We’ll hear more about it at tomorrow’s Tea and Tittle-Tattle. Won’t you join us tomorrow, Miss Clarke?” The sisters-in-law carry this conversation with each other, seldom looking at Miss Clarke. Therefore, they do not notice her noticing people’s movements across the park. “Onward, Lucy. If we don’t get home soon, Mr. Schwartz will pour himself a second bourbon and let the help burn our Sunday dinner.” Miss Clarke hears their chatter even as the sisters-in-law approach the next city block.
Across the tree-lined park sit two men on a bench nearest the pavilion. They sit with a valise between them and gesticulate as if talking about the trees and Cedar Post’s downtown. One man in white dress shirt and plain tie holds his suit jacket over the shoulder with one hand and the valise with his other hand. The other man has not removed his jacket or his hat; he raises one leg across his knee and wipes his shoe with a white handkerchief. Dressed in matching gray suits, they might have attended one of three local church services or met for business. Except for the town’s silence -- typical Sunday serenity before local teenagers escape their families’ dinner table and borrow their fathers’ cars to drag Main Street -- their conversation is drowned in birdsongs of hopeful nesters. A siege of whooping cranes captivates the men as it does Miss Clarke, their rowdy migration toward northern nesting grounds uninteresting to the smaller birds who come to the Llano for summer residence.
When Miss Clarke lowers her gaze from sky to city park bench, she notices it is empty. A quick 180-degree scan and the soft sound of footsteps on brick road turn her gaze to one man. To the left of her, he approaches a car that is parked facing west in front of the post office. Before entering the car, he opens the trunk and rummages inside it, produces a large manilla envelope and closes the trunk. Then he opens the rear passenger door, seats himself, and the car pulls away from the curb, leaving town as if driven by a ghost. “Well. Most curious. He wore light-colored socks; now they are dark. Both valise and the other man have quickly disappeared.” From her vantage point, she surveys the town, eyes and ears ably picking up that which is muted, hearing only the intensifying clang clang clunk of loose wood and metal. “There she is. Our faithful March Lion, searching hungrily for newborn calves.” Miss Clarke hurries inside her home. “Is tea ready, Amelia? I’ll have it in the sitting room.”
Sunday tranquility ends as gusts whip dirt in the city park where Bermuda grass waits to emerge with April rains and in winter pastures from which cattle need rotation. Teenagers rev the cars’ engines and cruise Cedar Post streets until friends beckon loudly for them to pull over. At home in her studio, Miss Juel addresses her model, “You should hurry now. Don’t be silly. Posing for art is an art form, and you’ve done well. I can finish this painting without you now. My sketches are good. The money is on the table…there by the door. Goodbye.” And six-year-old Alice who lives with her grandmother on the sunrise edge of town returns home after searching all morning for vividly colored stones. Her apron pocket, heavy with stones, nearly drags the ground; her gait is slow as she heaves a valise behind her, her jump rope tied to its handle.
“What have you collected?” Mrs. Cooper helps her granddaughter Alice untie the apron and sets its load on the floor. “These are lovely, Alice. We’ll wash them later and see if any will polish up nicely. But what about this portmanteau? Where did you find it? You must be exhausted from hauling it back here.”
“May I have cookies and milk with my sandwich? First things first, grandmother.” Relieved of her found burdens, Alice sits at the kitchen table. She gulps half the milk and swallows half the sandwich, exhales loudly and begins her story. In the meantime, after serving lunch to her hungry charge, Mrs. Cooper searches through the valise. “Past the stone circle and the big mesquite where the barn once stood and past the farm road to the Montoya place. It was behind the rocks that are too big to move. But not where it couldn’t be seen. I sat there for a little while. Nobody came.” Alice shrugs.
After reading a handful of papers inside the valise, her grandmother pauses to consider her next move. “Come with me, dear. We should seek Miss Clarke’s advice.” Together, Alice and her grandmother walk to Miss Clarke’s house on the other side of Main Street.
“Come in. Come in.” After answering the knock at Miss Clarke’s front door, Amelia welcomes the pair and leads them into the front sitting room. “I will get everyone some fresh iced tea. Just made it an hour ago.”
Miss Clarke had observed their approach…Alice’s ceaseless talking awakened her. “Sit down, please. I wish you had called first; I would have discouraged you from walking in this wind and dirt. But here is Amelia with some lovely refreshment. Alice, have some of these sandwiches. Amelia makes the best cream cheese filling. Thank you, Amelia. You are so thoughtful.” Miss Clarke doesn’t reach for a sandwich. She smiles at her friend, Mrs. Cooper, and nods inquisitively toward the valise.
“Oh, yes. This is why we rushed over. Alice returned from her Sunday trek with this baggage. She pulled it behind her…so very clever. I quickly rummaged through it. But you should have a look. I am worried that Alice stumbled upon something rather dicey.” She rises to set the valise next to Miss Clarke’s chair. “We’ll just quietly enjoy these treats while you peruse the papers.”
The grandmother clock ticks several minutes forward while Miss Clarke reads strange information and pauses to think. Alice slumbers against the sofa pillow, and her grandmother reads the newspaper. “Interesting. Very curious. Adele, what are your thoughts?”
“Jane, I read snippets. Only snippets. Although I am not as intelligent as you, I did get the impression that these papers should not be tucked behind rocks where animals and wind could scatter them to end up in some nefarious person’s clutches. But admittedly, I don’t understand the documents’ substance. Do you?”
“Oh, no, Adele. But I can understand enough to know its loss means something to someone. I agree with you. I must make a phone call.”
“Yes, dear Jane. This seems like a scientist and constabulary sort of matter.”
“I will call my nephew first. He works for the Labs in Los Alamos. He will know what to do.” Miss Clarke walks to the telephone in the hallway near the stairs, looks through her contact book and dials a number. “Hello, Walter. This is your aunt Jane. I am so sorry to disrupt your Sunday rest. But there is something in my possession that you should know about…”
Three hours later, Walter arrives at his aunt’s home in a new black Oldsmobile. Three other men accompany him. Miss Clarke surmises the men left their Sunday leisure hurriedly; they wear cardigans and leather bomber jackets instead of business suits. He kisses his aunt’s cheek and quickly introduces the men, first names only. “Hello, Aunt Jane. I’ll save our catch-up talk for another time. You understand.” Miss Clarke leads them to the dining room where the business-style leather valise is atop the large table. She closes the door behind them. To avoid listening in to their raised conversation, Miss Clarke returns to the Sunday newspaper puzzle. The ACROSS category is satisfactorily filled in when the four men join Miss Clarke in her sitting room. “Where is the child who found this valise, Aunt Jane? We need to speak with her and see where she found it.”
“Before you go, I must tell you what I observed today. The church service had ended, and the worshippers had all left…so the time was nearly half past noon. Two men…” She describes the men and the event while her nephew takes notes. The others politely listen, occasionally glancing at watches and blowing New Mexico dirt out of well-manicured nostrils into starched linen handkerchiefs. “Their home is north and east of the parsonage, truly on the edge of town. You’ll see yellow trim and blue curtains in the front window. I’ll wait here.”
The men walk to their car, and one speaks just above a whisper, “I don’t mean to be unkind about your old aunt, Walter. She’s a real sweetheart. But I wonder how much of what she says can be taken seriously. I mean…what was that about socks?”
Walter smiles and replies, “You would be wise to take every detail seriously. She is older and sharper than any of us with our college degrees and government clearances. She sees what others of us usually miss.”
“Okay, Walter. I’ll pay closer attention. Even though I’m meant to be working in my wood shop on a Sunday. But we need to hurry. We’ll lose daylight soon.”
Chapter 2: Monday Is a Mood
“Good morning, Miss Clarke. I wanted to be here ten minutes earlier, I truly did, but I detoured to get a better look…before they turned me around. Something big is going on just east of town. Several shiny important-looking black cars, a couple of state police vehicles, and men in suits everywhere. Kids won’t be on their way to school for another hour. Phones lines probably tied up all over town. Anything on the radio? Cedar Post hasn’t had this much outside attention since the last fighter jet crashed near the bombing range. We’re swimming in official manhood right now.” Amelia talks while removing her own coat and donning a kitchen apron, helping Jane Clarke with her coat and gloves, and following her employer down the front lane. “Here’s your purse and cane, Miss Clarke. You might be out most of the morning.”
“Do just stick to your routine, Amelia. I wrote a short shopping list. I hope that the grocer has some fruit today. I’ll be back here by noon.” She walks across the wide main avenue, then turns toward the stand of Texas walnut and elm trees that separate the town from the open spaces beyond.
When Jane Clarke is within three feet of her, Eliza visibly jumps. “Oh! Miss Clarke, I didn’t hear you coming. Lovely sunrise. I’m in town early to have coffee with Nina…Miss Juel, the art teacher. Before she reports in at the school. How lovely to see you.” They stand facing east and the rising sun, with their backs to the parsonage.
“I’m pleased to see you, Eliza. Since you moved to the ranch last year, we seldom have a chance to converse. How is your father-in-law? Has he recovered his strength…enough to do some light ranch chores or drive into town?” Jane Clarke steps closer to Eliza and resumes watching the activity beyond the town limits.
“Oh, yes. Grandpa Pritchard is back to his busy self. Beside all his own work, he is teaching John to ride and mend fences.” Eliza glances several times at Miss Clarke without moving her body or head. She crosses her arms and begins to dig at the dirt with her boot’s toe. Eliza Pritchard is a young woman, twenty-six, who gave birth to John the same month in 1944 that his father died on a Normandy beach. She did not remarry but tried to raise her son in Cedar Post while working part time in the library. Her son’s grandfather persistently hounded her to move to the ranch Where John could be properly raised by men.
“I’m happy to hear that Mr. Pritchard is active again.” Jane spies her nephew among several men in tight conversational circles near their cars. After a pause, she says, “I often wonder whether we should willingly put children into high-risk situations. Life has plenty of surprises without our creating more.” They pause conversation for a few minutes. “I count fourteen men out there. You must have taken the long way into town this morning, unless you’ve been here all night. What do you think is going on over there?”
Eliza clears her throat. “Well, I don’t know, Miss Clarke. Are they leaving? I came into town early. What they are doing is far enough north of the highway to let me and others drive into town. I wasn’t here yesterday, Miss Clarke. I couldn’t have stayed overnight.”
“Yes. Of course. You don’t usually come into town on a Sunday. It’s just that a person with your height and build was in the park yesterday. You seem a bit shaken by the activity over there. Is anything worrying you?”
“Nothing important, Miss Clarke. It’s just that I am running late. Good to see you. Goodbye.” Eliza limps to her car and drives into town.
“Yes. Well. I’ll see little Alice before she goes to school.” Jane Clarke walks to Adele’s house and knocks. “Good morning. I hope that I can have a little talk with Alice before she leaves. May I?”
“Come in, Jane. Of course. Alice, Miss Clarke is here to have coffee with us before you hurry off. Please sit down, Jane. I’ll get you a cup.”
Alice chews her last bite of ham and wipes her mouth. “I’m done with breakfast. I only need to brush my teeth. So, I’ve time to talk.”
“You are a bright girl, Alice. I know you had a big day yesterday. And, no doubt, you stood up smartly with the men who talked with you and asked you to show them where you found the large bag. Now that you’ve had a good night’s rest…Have you remembered any sight or sound when you were out there alone yesterday?” Jane Clarke leans in toward Alice and waits.
“How did you know? I remembered something. When I found the big bag, I couldn’t walk with it. I guess I should have left my rock collection there…to go back for them next Sunday. But I remembered that Mr. Griego would harness his mule to pull the tiller behind it. So, I fashioned the rope. While I was doing that, I heard a truck engine. I looked around. Didn’t see anything. Its engine revved loudly for a couple of minutes; then it stopped and all was quiet again. I forgot about it because I couldn’t see it.”
“Oh. That is very good, Alice. Just one more question, then you must get to school. Did you hear a voice at any time?”
The girl closed her eyes tight and stuck her fingers in her ears. In the meantime, Miss Clarke and the girl’s grandmother listened to Dinah Shore on the radio and swayed to the song, Sweet Violets. Then Alice opened her eyes and unplugged her ears as if it was the most natural way to recall sight and sounds. “Yes. Just once. Someone said, Alice! Alice! Grandmother must have thought I was gone too long on my Sunday adventure.”
“Are you sure it was a female’s voice? Did you hear this before or after the sound from the truck?”
“I’m sure it was like grandmother’s voice. But can’t remember when she called. I’m off! See you later, Grandma.” With that, Alice runs to the restroom and out the door of the house without another word. Jane and Adele watch her and smile, remembering their youthful energy and fresh excitement.
“I did not step outside the house to call Alice yesterday. I wonder who it was that called her.” Adele frowns with an uneasy feeling.
“Yes. That is curious. A woman who knows Alice by sight.” Jane Clarke steps outside and sees that her nephew waits in a car parked at the curb in front of her home. “I should see my nephew before he leaves town. Thank you, Adele.”
“Will you be at Tea and Tittle-Tattle today, Jane?” Adele speaks to Jane’s retreating figure.
Jane pauses to say, “Not today, dear. I count on you to remember all the gossip. Take notes.” She waves and hurries on.
“Walter! I did not want to keep you waiting.” Jane Clarke looks both ways before crossing Main Street. Her nephew steps out of the car.
“Slow down, Aunt Jane. There’s no need to hurry. I’m done here and need to leave right away. But I wouldn’t go without seeing you again.” They walk into the house together. After Miss Clarke hangs her hat and coat, she walks into the sitting room where her nephew already occupies a space on the settee.
“I’m so glad you can spare a few minutes with me, dear Walter. I won’t keep you. Such goings-on. Who died?” She picks up the sketchbook and waits.
“State police and the mortuary cannot have already leaked that news! Well. Go ahead. Tell me how you know we located a body. It hasn’t been identified. He is not a local according to the Uniforms who live and work near here, and the truck’s compartments are empty, just as his pockets are.” Walter leans back and grins.
“I doubt very much that you and your colleagues would share the valise’ contents with state police. Yet state police were out there this morning with you. Of course, police will use a postmortem photo and his fingerprints to try to identify him. The license plate on the truck is probably a stolen plate. Describe his clothing and socks, please, dear nephew.”
“Dressed like every man between the Pacific Ocean and the Sabine River. Not a business suit. His boots are missing. Might have been an accident…the way he was crushed. The hood wasn’t closed tight. Hmm.” Walter rubs his chin and looks at his aunt. “Your thoughts.”
“What evidence proves this was an accident? Are the keys in the ignition? If his boots are not there, then someone who was there took them away, perhaps wearing them to cover their own tracks. Did you find a second set of shoe prints near the truck or between the rocks where little Alice found the valise or anywhere between those two places?”
“Dear Aunt Jane, you have more questions than I have answers. The local Uniforms trampled that ground like worried cattle. Look. When I get back to the Labs, how can I explain that you looked through some of the bag’s contents?” Walter notices that his aunt’s hands are busy sketching even as though she gazes out the window. “So for the Lab authorities, I will paint a picture of a silly old woman who saw big scary words and called her nephew because she assumes I know what the big words mean.” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Listen to me. All we care about are the documents. The dead man is a matter for local police because nothing at the scene shows a connection to the Labs’ documents. He is not one of us. There are no alerts for missing scientists. Alice says she did not see or go to a truck. What makes you curious about the dead man?”
“He is the key to all of this. There will be more cases like this one. Look for police reports about unidentified accident or murder victims. I’ll search newspapers. We should narrow our searches to New Mexico and southern Colorado, using the Labs as the focus. Scientists and Intelligence people care about secrets. But they should also care about the men and women who procure and pass the secrets. They are nobody until they matter. It’s the same when women and children go missing. Instead of looking for organizations that have the motivation and structure to disappear people, police look only for lifeless bodies.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Walter, those documents are dead. The information in them has been replicated and passed on multiple times since ‘45. You should not look at me that way. Of course it is true. Nonetheless, people who want the secrets will do anything for them. And thieves who steal secrets are insatiable. You remember Miss Grey who wrote poison pen letters for twenty years before she was caught. Other than the thrills she experienced, her little blackmail scheme eventually paid for two weeks in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. She got careless and mailed two letters from there. Who else from this side of Dallas would go to party in Louisiana? So, it is true. There is little success in simply retrieving the papers. Justice and truth must prevail.”
“Yes, I remember Miss Grey. Not for her poison pen. All of us as children were afraid of her. Something…But, Aunt Jane, we’ll be obligated to work with the FBI. You know how that makes me feel. Some good men in there but truly awful leadership.”
“Walter, someone called to little Alice by name, and an outsider died…within minutes of each other. And Eliza Pritchard is afraid of something…or someone.” Miss Clarke follows her nephew to the door. “I’ve a great deal to write down.”
“Do promise to keep me informed, Aunt Jane. And be careful. If you agree to keep your feelers close to home, I’ll agree to make inquiries that are out of your reach.” He kisses his aunt and strides hurriedly to the car, far more anxious now than he was when he got the phone call at 2:00 A.M.
Amelia passes Walter on the sidewalk. He nods a silent greeting but does not slow down or offer help with the grocery bags. Amelia sees him get into the car, and she rushes to the open front door where Miss Clarke stands to see her nephew off. “I’m so glad you’re back, Amelia. I won’t eat lunch here. Mrs. Cooper and I will meet at the diner after I visit the library and post office.” She reaches for her hat just as Amelia drops the weighty groceries onto the kitchen table with a whiney Here we go again that her employer hears from the front door.
Jane Clarke steps inside Cedar Post’s cleanest diner where every curtain, tablecloth, and server’s apron is red and white gingham. The other town eatery appeals to men who want the sole company of working men and prefer food that arrives with knife instead of spoon. She quickly inspects the lunch crowd. Her friend sits in the thick of it. “Is this table quite acceptable, Jane?”
“This is just right, Adele. We’re surrounded by talkers.” Jane asks for a cup of Monday minestrone soup.
“The Tittle-Tattle group was bursting today. A few showed up in new Spring frocks. But this is an Aprilly sort of day, isn’t it, Jane? The circle skirts and petticoats they wear underneath seem so wasteful…fabric and cost. So feminine and delightful! But the frocks show more chest than we normally behold before bath time. Shirley brought ghastly strawberry scones. Well, you don’t make them with canned strawberries and soured cream, do you, Jane?”
“Women’s fashion reflects the nation’s moods, Adele. We’ve seen hard times since the ’29 crash. Time to celebrate being a woman, don’t you think? Any notes related to the death?” Miss Clarke sips her tea and watches the diner’s occupants who sit nearest the wall. The diners are engaged in a polite argument.
“Yes indeed. Mrs. Pettigrew says her husband saw Alice walking home with her rocks and the heavy valise. While Alice was still out on her Sunday rock-hunting trek, he noticed a truck on the main road. He had stepped out of the parsonage to turn off the water spigot when the truck drove by and turned east at the intersection. He says that two people sat in the cab. The passenger either sat very low or it was a child. Their faces were turned away from him. The other women merely repeated rumors about child abductors and immigrant ranch hands.”
“That’s interesting. Two people in the truck but we don’t know if the truck Mark Pettigrew saw is the truck where the man lay dead. Were the two people familiar to Mark?”
“How do you hear anything in this diner, Jane? The blitz was less noisy.”
“Try to listen in to conversations nearest us and those barely above whisper. The loud talkers haven’t secrets we care about.” Miss Clarke daintily spoons the soup to her mouth and uses her napkin to obscure her expressions. She smiles when a diner who sits in a booth says We met through the Tuesday night Marriage Club. Pastor says Bill has great references. Although her friend has finished her sandwich, Miss Clarke has more questions. “Is the Tuesday night meeting inside the church basement? Is it well attended? Who are the regulars? You probably notice after you’ve put Alice to bed.”
“I know she is a regular.” Mrs. Cooper eyes the woman leaving the diner behind her older employer. “I don’t pay much attention unless a full moon is out. Then I watch more closely…you know…shenanigans. Yes, they enter and exit through the side basement door. Their preacher and his wife escort them in and out.” She uses her fingers to list the attendees. “Miss Juel, Eliza Pritchard, Marie Esteban, Gloria Tuttle…They are faithful to the club. A few other women such as your Amelia show up occasionally, but I don’t know their names.”
“Perhaps the occasional ones come from other towns.”
Mrs. Cooper rises. “Toodle-loo, Jane. I’ve the washing up to do, dirt to sweep, and a dress to sew for Alice. She’ll be tall like her father.” Adele walks with her friend to the sidewalk outside the eatery. “I must stop at the cemetery, Jane. I want to tidy up my daughter’s and her husband’s graves, free the tumblin’ tumbleweeds.” They part ways. Miss Clarke walks to the First Baptist parsonage.
Mrs. Pettigrew sees Miss Clarke walk away from the parsonage’s front porch. “Over here, dear. Miss Clarke, we’re over here!”
“Hello, Mrs. Pettigrew. I suspect that you’re cleaning up the dirt that will blow through these leaky windows again before Sunday.”
“Yes, Miss Clarke. This, like housework, is a thankless, boring, perpetual task. An endless series of mind-numbing tasks. What may we do for you?”
“I have a question for your husband. Is he nearby?” Miss Clarke walks steadily to the church. If he is inside helping his wife with these cleaning chores, he is being generous with his time and stepping down as it were.
With a broom and dustmop in hand, Mark Pettigrew meets Miss Clarke before she gets to the church steps. “Good afternoon, Miss Clarke. You will barely escape being blown away unless you hurry home. But how can I help you?” He smiles the I am glad you are here for me, but you are not a priority smile.
“Just one question, Mr. Pettigrew. Was the truck you saw yesterday with two passengers the same truck at the scene to which police were called this morning?”
“Yes and no. I believe it is the same truck, but the man who died was not the driver I saw yesterday. And the passenger was not at the scene of death. Therefore, I conclude only that the two trucks are similar.”
“You saw the driver’s face? Can you describe the passenger?”
“Well, no. My guess is based on a casual observance. Just the feeling I had when I looked at the body. They asked me there so that I could identify him and pray over him. As to the passenger…well, he or she sat low, seemed smaller than the driver. They might have been strangers to our community. We’ve a lot of recent war refugees coming through by Route 66, lots of Mexican immigrants working on these ranches and the farms below the caprock.” He pauses. She seems ready to walk home. Wanting the last word he says, “Let me give you some advice, Miss Clarke. This matter is above your abilities. Your nephew tolerates the snooping and listening in and so forth. But he is not in Cedar Post to protect you. Jesus teaches that women should be quiet and humble. Please focus on the lovely little sketches you frame and gift to others.”
“One more question, Mr. Pettigrew. Did you hear someone call out to Alice yesterday?”
“No. Other than the passing truck, teenagers on Main Street, wind and birds, I heard nothing of significance to the mystery you must leave to the men in uniform.” After he turns toward the church with the dustmop and broom still in hand, she turns to cross the street. They are both startled when a truck speeds by, throwing gravel and dirt near Miss Clarke’s feet, accelerating instead of slowing down for the Main Street pedestrians, heading west without stopping. Both take quiet note that this is truck number three – same make, year, and color.
Chapter 3: Tuesday Marriage Club