Beast of the Field (7 page)

8.

Yes, it was starting again:  a draining, gritty feeling behind and beneath his ribs.  There had been a few cases before—the dead Arab in Louisville, for instance, that family of seven in Little Rock—that had appeared to everyone else to be accidental deaths, and at first to Sterno too.  The Arab had been a hophead, clumsy enough in his altered state to fall off the top floor of the Brown on the eve of the Derby.  That family had been—father to baby—Ozark simpletons: only a matter of time, said the residents of their town, before one of those idiots burned the house down.  Yet in each case Sterno had stuck around for some reason, nothing more than the trace of a scent.  He would sip from his flask, sniff at the air, follow his nose.  The sipping soon became drinking.  The sleeplessness followed.  After this came the sickness in his stomach that sometimes became an offshoot of anger, then anger outright, then a debilitating sickness again.  That was what murder did to him.  Murder was loss, and Sterno knew about loss.

He wasn't there yet, he was still somewhere between the drinking and the sleeplessness, but the feeling was the same, and he knew it well.  Those other cases had turned out to be murders.  Sterno had put three men in penitentiaries—two of whom got the gallows—and only then did the feeling go away.  Who was going to hang this time?

After making it official to the Donnan woman he would be taking the case, Sterno drove back into town.  There was no way he could spend another night assailed by those icy blue eyes; he would take a room at the hotel.  It was better for investigation, anyhow, now that there officially was an investigation.  At the German restaurant across from the hotel he had pig knuckle and a potato salad so sour he made a face on the first few bites.  He also had a bottle of Bavarian lager the restaurant’s owner, Victor Hausladen, had brought from under floorboards, and it was good.  Sterno smoked cigarettes and made notes as he drank two more of these, then smoked outside the restaurant, looking up at the window to Dr. Rosenzweig’s room and office.  Sterno shook his head, smoked. 

Something…he just didn’t know.

Finally, he made his way across lampless Main Street to the hotel.

"Hey, you're that Pinkerton detective.  You were here with the mayor this morning.  I'm Theresa Helmcamp, call me ‘Tess,’" the hotel’s owner and operator said when he’d rung the desk bell.  He nodded, tried to smile.  He felt heavy and tired from the beer, and when the Helmcamp woman appeared behind the desk he sucked in his stomach, realizing even as he did it that it had been ages since he last did that in the presence of a woman. 
Ages since he cared.  Why now? 

"So, how long will you be staying?” she said.  She then stopped short, pulled her reading glasses down on her nose to look at him.  “Well, my goodness, you are so much more handsome up close.  A little knocked around, but handsome."  She had an older-sisterly way of speaking that allowed her to say about anything she pleased.  A widow, he thought.

"Couple days," Sterno said to her question.  "And we'll go from there." 

A few electric floor lamps burned in the lobby, but did little to illuminate the grand room.  The light softened the Helmcamp woman’s features—taking the rough-worked edge from them that he had seen that morning.  She was a handsome woman with chestnut hair and chestnut eyes, about the same age as Marnie Donnan, but younger looking for the indoor life she led.  Her lips were brown too and were framed in deep and long dimples that tapered in toward her chin,
and these with the way her eyes twinkled in the lamplight made her smile all-knowing somehow, reassuring in a way that helped Sterno's nerves to settle.  However, she wore a simple dress cinched around her waist, accentuating her hips and breasts, and this seemed to undo the settling effect of her smile.  He found himself averting his eyes like a schoolboy and twisting slightly against feelings below his abdomen he had not felt since the death of Elizabeth. 

She gave him a key from a drawer under the counter.  "We serve meals here in the dining room, or the lobby—they’re the same room, more or less. 
Seven for breakfast, noon for lunch, five for supper.  If you would like a piece of pie or coffee, one of the girls can help you."  She spoke with a flat tone until she said the following, which she softened.  "Or maybe, if I'm around, I could help you to a piece of pie.  Sure a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sterno."

They stood there in silence for a handful of seconds.  He had been waiting for her to tell him in which room he'd be staying; instead, she put her elbows on the desk and her chin on the knuckles of her interlaced fingers. "The lobby’s empty.  I was about to sit and have a little, um, coffee.  You care for a sip?"

They sat in soft chairs in the lobby, just where a circle of light thrown by one of the lamps bordered the darkness of the room.  She curled her legs in beneath her in the style of a high school girl, poured more than a sip of whisky into a coffee cup for Sterno, the same amount into hers, followed by a splash of Coca-Cola.

While he rolled cigarettes for them, she told him she had been born in Price, hoped to die there too.  She had married and lived in Texas, but hated the weather.  Her husband died in the oil fields near Galveston before they had had kids.  She had traveled around after that—Cincinnati, Chicago, even his hometown, St. Louis, but eventually came home to run the hotel with her father.  He had let her roam because in his youth he had done some adventuring,
so no reason a woman shouldn’t go do some; he had also been glad to see her back home to help with the Old Blue Mare.  Still, it was only last spring when he had finally given her complete control of the hotel.  She was happy here, she said, because it was home, and she wouldn’t raise a child anywhere else (though, she admitted freely to her cup on its way to her lips, she was running out of time for that).  She was happy here for other reasons, too:  she had never found a sky like the one over their heads at that moment, never a breeze like the one that went through Hope County, "even if it is going thirty mile an hour." 

Sterno listened, soothed by her voice and her face, both soft and easy to be with in the lamplight.  He teased her with the story back at the office, the legend of the sweet Missouri breeze that wandered into Kansas,
then got in a hurry to get out of there. 

She laughed at this, poured their second two-finger sip of whisky.  She said, "I like the wind, always have.  It feels clean to me.  Or maybe it's that it keeps this place clean.  I don't know—for Pete’s sake, this stuff is going straight to my head tonight."

"Your hotel held up against that tornado, it looks," Sterno said.

She nodded, tapped ash from her cigarette,
looked around her lobby.  "This old girl has stood up against worse."

"I imagine this place has a good cellar."

She nodded, then shook her head.  "Like a dungeon down there.  We use it for storage now.  Dad uses it for storage, that is—he won’t let anyone down there but me—so when that twister came, I took everyone who was staying here to the dance barn, to the ice cellar with everyone else in town.  That's where everyone goes in a twister."

"Not Tommy Donnan," Sterno purposely let slip.

Her tone was affected by the statement.  "What a shame that was," she said.

"You knew him?"

"Oh, of course I knew him.  Everyone knew him.  He helped Dad with his horses when he got too old to do it himself.  A strange boy, I guess, but such a nice boy.  Listen to me, I sound like an old lady.”

“How so?
  ‘Strange?’”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong.  He just had a different way about him. 
Grand ways at times, and also very polite, almost too polite, to the girls, anyway.  A little syrupy, for my liking.  He had a pretty face too—a blessing and a curse for some people, I imagine.  You know, looking back, I think I sometimes felt sorry for him.  He just didn’t belong here, didn’t belong on a farm.  It must’ve been very hard for him to come back from the college—he’d worked so hard to get the money to go.  Then, geez, then look what happened to him.”

“Why did he come back then?”

She stared through the screen of the front door, thinking.  Outside the songbirds had just gone quiet but the cicadas still made their rattling rounds.  She finally put out her cigarette in the bottom of the glass ash tray.  “The family wasn’t doing so well.  Braun had his leg broken under an engine they’d been using to power a belt, I think.  He couldn’t keep up with the work, couldn’t keep his business running either.  And Junior…well, Junior was a stranger, not the same as he was before the war.”

“So this was after the war.”

“Yes, but not right after.  The spring of ‘twenty, if I had to guess, maybe the fall of ‘twenty, right before harvest.”  She became quiet on the last bit, thinking back to something.  "Goodness, I'll never forget the look in old Braun's eyes when he came in to tell us all about Tommy being dead.  He nearly ran his pick-up right through the front door to get here.  It was that Sunday after the twister, pretty hard to forget.  We were serving soup for lunch, and the Reverend Metzger was sitting with families right here in the lobby—some of them had lost their homes.  Braun Donnan is as tough an old nut as you're going to find anywhere, but at that moment he looked like…I don't know....  I barely recognized him.  I thought they didn’t get along, the two of them—perfect opposites—but you wouldn’t know it by his eyes that morning.”

“His son was dead.”

She nodded, leaned forward, took a light from him.  She sat back, smoked, still thinking back.

A thought suddenly occurred to Sterno:  It was Donnan came in to tell everyone the news. 
At lunchtime.  Sterno tried to remember what the sheriff had told him this morning.

"Just curious," Sterno said.  "Was the sheriff around that morning? 
Or Jonas, or any of Jonas’s boy?"

She looked at him with her brows in a straight line over her eyes.  "'Just curious,' huh?" she said.  "He lives out southeast of town, about a mile or so...that way."  She pointed with her coffee cup.  "Why are you just curious about that?"

"He said his house got hit pretty hard too."

"Oh yeah.
  The wind was blowing hard."

"He lives out there with his nephew?"

"Nephew
s
."

"Good Christ, how many Neuwalds are there?"

She smiled at this.

"So then, the boys and the fathers and all the wives share a house?"

"No, oh no.  They're not one of those families, though we got more than a few of those around here.  No, Jake doesn't live with his nephews.  Not his nephews."  She cleared her throat.  "He lives alone, a widower; Janice died about five years back.  He keeps a good distance from their place, most of the time.  He has to, that is, if he wants to keep his job.  Those boys make their living in a way that, well...that a sheriff can't get too close to without having to do something about it."  She raised her cup to make her point.

Bootleggers, Sterno thought.  It occurred to him that were it not for that cup of hers, and what was in it, she never would have said so much to him.  He seized the opportunity.  "And so where do those other Neuwalds live? 
His nephews."

She gave him directions to the Neuwald farm.  She told him it used to be a thriving hay farm, same as the Donnans', only bigger, but then they sold all but about 100 acres of woodlands and the plot immediately surrounding the house and barn.  "They still do alright, they rent out what fields they have, they sell their timber, I suppose. 
A couple a bachelors living out there, that big old house, no mother, no wife.  I can’t imagine what it looks like now.  I guess I'll leave it up to you to tell me."  She leaned towards him, again, this time not to get her cigarette lighted.    "How about I cook up some nice pork chops tomorrow night, what do you say?  Ham and beans for everyone else, a nice chop with apples for that strong jaw of yours.  How about it, just you and me, handsome, a special Sunday dinner, maybe a bottle of--"  She stopped and sat straight in her chair.   "Hey hold on a second, why're you going out there, exactly?  You're not a Treasury man are you?"

Sterno finished what was in his cup, put on his fedora.  "Goodnight, Mrs. Helmcamp.  Thanks for the coffee." 

He took the creaking stairs to his room.  Dropped his grip to the floor.  That old gritty feeling had vanished in the presence of the Helmcamp woman.  With her voice in his head and her smile across the lamplight from him, he had all but forgotten he was here to do a job.  Now he was alone again and the old gritty feeling was back as before.  Something wouldn’t let him be, something little he couldn’t get his mind on, or maybe a few little somethings, too little to grab now, but would become something big, too big, soon. 

Blowing cigarette smoke, he sat heavily in the bed,
then lied back in the bed.  The ceiling was already teetering in front of him, but that didn’t stop his flask from freeing itself from his jacket. It wasn’t long before the bottle in his grip, from which he had filled the flask, was longing for its freedom too.

9.

The pearl-colored handkerchief wrapped around the rain-warped letters had frilly designs along the edges, so it was a woman’s, Millie knew that much.  So she had a good idea before she started reading who had bound the letters:  It could only be Miss Flora. The dark green ribbon binding the letters was something she had seen before, in Miss Flora’s hair, maybe, or similarly binding something on her desk.  It was Miss Flora who had given Tommy these letters before he was killed. 
Somehow.  At some point before he was killed that night.  When had she done it?  Where had she done it?  The shed in the woods?  Had she left them for him there, or somewhere, or given them to him in person?  Did Miss Flora know anything about what happened that night?  Had she left before Tommy could see her.  And why had nobody ever asked her about it? 

Because there had been no investigation, that’s why; the whole town had believed—still believe—it was an accident, that’s why.  Now there was an investigation, however,
her
investigation, and her wheels were turning.  Now she was asking the questions.  Now she was providing some of the answers.  She knew Tommy and Miss Flora had been in love.  She knew it was Miss Flora who had given Tommy the watch and chain he lost that night.  She now knew Tommy had had a bundle of letters from Miss Flora in his trunk—and another bundle of letters from her in his buggy.   If only Millie could talk to her, or get a letter to her; but Miss Flora was gone.  She was never seen after the storm.  Either that day, or sometime soon after, her father had sent her to Kansas City to be with family, then back to school, where she was now.  She had not even gone to the funeral.

All Millie had
were these letters.

She had swept the mow floor clean of straw, dirt, dried bird and squirrel droppings and acorn shells, then scrubbed out the chicken dropping stains and swept it again.  Then
came the letters.  After untying the green ribbon and unfolding the pearl-colored hanky, Millie discovered the letters in the buggy were Tommy’s side of their, their
correspondence,
was the word.  The rained-on letters were Tommy’s letters to Miss Flora; for some reason Miss Flora had wanted him to have them, some reason beyond Millie’s knowing.  She carefully placed the ribbon and the silky pearl hanky neatly to one side.  She removed the letters from their envelopes and placed them neatly on top of these envelopes.  The letters that had been on the bottom of the stack had been soaked beyond reading.  She put these aside.  The letters from Tommy’s trunk were from Miss Flora to him, and were in—what was the word?—
pristine
condition.  She put the readable letters in order by the dates, the way Tommy had taught her.  This took some doing, because not one of the envelopes had addresses on them, or postage: they were each and all—every letter—somehow passed by hand, and she had to open each one and check the date at the top.

The first letters were written when Tommy was still at that college in Wichita.  Millie hadn’t known Miss Flora was at the same college.  Through primary and secondary school, she had gone to a congregational school over in Coyville, so Millie knew very little about her before she came home to take over the schoolhouse.   Maybe Tommy hadn’t known much about her
either, she didn’t remember him ever mentioning her.  But judging from these first two letters, he got to know her very well.

Dear Florella,                                          Sept., 1920

This is the most difficult time of my life.  The semester has only begun and I have been called back home.  I am torn into two pieces, and I do not know what I will do.  Mother is working indoors and in the fields, and is wrung out from the work.  Having
Junior back from the war has helped some, but Pa can’t find any help besides him, and can’t afford to pay his help if he could.  He is staying out way past dark to finish the work himself, and then drinking himself to sleep.  The more he works, the more he drinks.  The hay deliveries are not being made and the money is not coming in; we are getting letters from the banks almost every day.  When Mother wrote me for help, my first thought was I could never go back.  I worked my whole young life to get out of that town, firstly, but far more important than that is that I cannot leave with you here.  Yet I feel an obligation to my family. I feel I must go back home.  I can’t let Mother down.

Oh Flora, I can barely write for the tears.  I am so in love with you, darling.  Since you plopped down next to me on my blanket at the park, and began studying without a word to me, I have been in love with you.  You have been with me in body, soul and mind since that day and I have never been happier.  The thought of being apart from you collapses me.  It is only a day’s drive, but it feels like oceans and mountain ranges.  You must know, we will be together someday, away from Price.  Till then, every minute is a day and every day an eon.  I will see you tomorrow night, at our spot in the park, and we will say goodbye. 

Please don’t be angry at me, Darling, and try not to be sad.  I love you most, but I must go home to help save the farm.  We WILL be together.

             
              Sincerely, Tommy

p.s.  Remember, you cannot send letters to my house.  Never forget that, please.

Millie hadn’t known the farm was in trouble.  In fact, in her ten-year-old (at the time) world, she had never given a thought as to why Tommy had come home.  Beforehand, she had known he was going to Wichita, to that ladies’ college they were letting boys go to, but that someday he would be back.  When he did come back, Millie had thought it was because it was time, nothing more.  It had never crossed her mind he had left early, and that he hadn’t wanted to come home, or that it was a hard decision for him.  She had never imagined he had left behind the love of his life. 

My Dearest Tommy,                            Sept 7, 1920

Take this letter home with you, read it, keep it, and know every drop of ink has come from my bleeding heart.  Oh Tommy Tommy Tommy my Sweet Love……….I just can’t bear it.  I can’t bear life without you here.  Shakespeare will mean nothing to me without you to be my Romeo, my Hamlet,
my Lear.  Life will mean nothing to me, Tommy, until I can be with you again………………….

I know your family needs you.  It is very good of you to quit school after all you’ve been through just to have the chance to come to college.  Oh how I wish it were me in your hands, returning home with you, and not this letter.  I will come and visit you there.  For you and you alone I would return to that town, to that house.  I will see you at Christmas time, unless Daddy sends me to his sister’s in Kansas City, but Christmas is such a long way away.  How I wish I could home with you now
now!
…even if it is to that dreadful little town. Woe is me, my sweet love, until we can be together again.

Goodbye, my love, you can’t know how much I’ll miss you while we’re apart.

             
With an Aching Heart, Florella

This letter was on a special kind of paper with little specks of gold in it and designs around the edges.  The handwriting was fancy looking too, like she had spent a lot of time writing it.  And the writing was fancy enough to make her want to upchuck.  A fancy letter to last a whole year.

Millie tried to re-create
this year, September 1920 until September 1921, when Miss Flora came home to take over the school.  It was a year of work, like any other.  A normal year, except Tommy had taken over the finances of the farm, going in town with Othello to trade on credit for lumber, feed or a piece of equipment.  They had been the first farm in this part of the county to start plowing for corn—a gamble, but a good one in the end, because it was a warm spring and their corn was in in early June—almost unheard of around here—and was the first corn to market that year.  The summer was a wet one, a thunderstorm once a week, a couple twisters but nothing bad.  Plenty of rain.  The hay grew fast and green and had to be cut every two weeks and even though there were other farms that could deliver bales, none were so cheap as the Donnan hay, sweet green hay delivered on time or early and paid for with a signature until harvest.  By August of ’21, Pa was his old self again, cackling and reaching way up to slap Junior on the back on their way in from the fields.

Thinking about Tommy, however, she could remember now that he had not been the same person.  Not the Tommy she knew from before.  That feeling of excitement that had used to surround him was gone.  His arms and legs had looked heavy on him; but this was farm work, and not just any farm work, make-up work for the low yield of ’20, so everyone had looked tired.  She—no one, she imagined—had had any idea there was another reason he had been acting so, what was the word he had taught her…
morose. 
Yes, morose. 

That all changed on Harvest Mow Festival Day, September, 1921.  The day Flora came home.  Tommy changed that day, back to the old Tommy—bigger, though, in some ways, better in some ways, but in good ways.  He was in love with life again. 

His letters became nearly unreadable for all the sickening, syrupy language, the lines from Shakespeare and the careless professions of love:

“Now you are home and my heart is exploding within my chest.  This is something extraordinary inside me and I do not know what we will do until we can be away from here to begin our life together.  My innards feel aquiver, my heart pounds through my ribcage.  I must see you again.  Since we cannot see each other in town, I will bring this to your window tonight.

Until Then…
‘O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.’”

Stuff like that.

“Horseshit,” Millie said into the barn.  She read it again, and again after that, but still couldn’t believe a person would put this kind of manure on paper and send it to another person to be read.  What was that bit about “our life together?”  How could he have thought they would have a lifetime together already?  Was that what falling in love was like?  You see a person, your insides get tangled up and all of the sudden your life is over?  That’s not
love, that sounded more like arsenic.   

Miss Flora picked the Mow Festival for her homecoming. 
The mayor’s daughter back home from college in grand fashion to take over the schoolhouse, right there in front of every weedwhacker from this corner of the county.  The Harvest Mow Festival was a big deal in Price.  Folks came from New Bremen and other places in Hope County to show off their kids with greased down hair and sunflower buttons, their homemade brats and slaws and pies, and their fancy clothes fresh from the Hamilton catalogue.  There was a fair during the day, with a pie eating contest, a cow-chip throwing contest and the usual trading booths, crafts and livestock, tractor and automobile exhibits, and that night a dance at the big barn, with musicians and more food.  In spite of the fact that the mud from two days of rain had made the tractor races, automobile races and horse races impossible, last year’s Mow Festival had still been a festive to-do, not only because a great growing season could have farmers smiling in any weather, but because Mayor Greentree had just announced he was going to run for governor in 1924.  So here he was parading his daughter around with the mayor of New Bremen and those rich men from McMurray Oil in Oklahoma that were going to drill for oil in Hope County, smoking big cigars and haw-hawing it up for each other. 

Tommy had been on a blanket with Millie and Junior.  Tommy and she played gin rummy while Junior tapped his thigh to the tuba in the brass band.  The September sun was still high but beginning to curve to the horizon when Tommy saw something in the distance.  He dropped his cards on the blanket for her to see his hand, shot up from the blanket like he’d sat on a live wire, but then just stood staring with his trilby back on his head like some dope from a cartoon strip.  Tommy could wake up talking, talk all day, talk through supper, go to bed talking and talk in his sleep, and here he was, deaf and dumb, slack-jawed and gawking as he followed something with his eyes.  Junior saw her too and he stood up, both of them staring.  At the time, Millie had had no idea what on earth could be doing this to them.  All she saw was Mayor Greentree and Miss Flora, the new school teacher—what was the big hullaballoo?

Without a word to anyone, Tommy left them, leapt into his buggy, snapped the reins against Othello’s sides, went home in a hurry.  Junior and Millie were left there to wait for a ride from Pa. 

Millie stayed by Junior’s side but he was acting like a dope too.  For the rest of the evening, Junior couldn’t take his eyes off Miss Flora, milling around in the crowd, his eyes always where she and the mayor were walking, no matter how near or far away they were.  Strange enough, for sure, because Millie hadn’t seen Junior so interested in anything since coming home from the war, and here he was wandering the muddy grass in a daze, his eyes following around this hometown girl he’d known most his life, had seen a million times before.

*

That night was the dance.  There was a band playing—a guitar, an accordion, a banjo, a fiddle, a saw, a tub bass and some kind of whistle she had never heard of before called a piccolo.  Millie and Junior had come with Mother and Pa again:  Tommy refused to come along with the rest of them.  Once there, Millie sat at a table drinking punch and watching the dancers scuff up the floor.  Next to her, Junior, who usually loved the music and the sight of the twirling dancers, sat staring into the table.  Then in walked Tommy.  In his trilby hat and that ridiculous red and white striped jacket he had ordered from Chicago he was pulled onto the dance floor, broke right into dance.  It looked as though the old Tommy was back.  The other girls waited for their turns with him, some dancing with other men until Tommy had a free hand, some just hovering near him and waiting.  Millie noticed, however, that Tommy looked bored.  No,
bored
wasn't the right word; what word would Tommy want her to use? 
Preoccupied,
yes, preoccupied was how he looked.  His eyes were never on whichever girl it was he was dancing with, not Cynthia Brenner with her bazooms nearly falling out of her dress, not Kathleen O'Dwyer with those eyelashes you could swat mosquitoes with; but all over the room.  At last, while at the "Men’s" punch bowl, his eyes landed on something.  Millie followed his gaze to the entranceway of the barn and dance hall to discover, again, Miss Flora.