She wore such a mustache as she listened to Mrs. Gallagher.
Woolworth no longer owned this store; a chain named Bargains, Inc. did. But the lunch counter was the same. So Amy usually ate her lunch here.
Mrs. Gallagher was an old family friend, a stout, gray-haired lady who always seemed to have a shawl wrapped around her, even in summertime.
She had a shawl wrapped around her now.
“I just want you to know that what that brother of yours did is no reflection on you,” she said. “And I’m speaking for a lot of people when I say that.”
“But Mrs. Gallagher—”
The older woman glanced at the red Coca-Cola wall clock and said, “Gosh, I didn’t realize what time it was. I’ve got bridge club in another twenty minutes.” She patted Amy’s hand, then stepped down from her counter stool.
“We’ll all be praying for you, Amy,” she said. She made a clucking sound. “You did so much for him. I just can’t believe he’d do something like this to you.”
Then she was gone, taking the heavy scent of her cologne with her.
She’s already convicted him, Amy thought.
She knew that Mrs. Gallagher, who really was a decent person, was speaking for a lot of people. They believed that Richie — whom they’d long suspected would come to a bad end — had killed Darcy. Period. They didn’t even need an investigation or a trial to convince them. It was already a closed matter.
Usually, Amy was a pretty quick eater. Since she was always trying to lose six or seven pounds, she allowed herself the luxury of food only at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No snacks. So she should be wolfing her sandwich and shake down as usual.
But she had no appetite. Mrs. Gallagher’s summary judgment of Richie was still in her ears.
The town of Crystal Falls had already sentenced her younger brother to prison for murder.
Thirteen
1
The way the townspeople waved at Helen Cummings, you knew that they revered her almost as much as they did her brother.
David Cummings couldn’t always make it back here more than six or seven times a year. There were key Senate votes he had to stay in Washington for, or party functions, or lobbyists to listen to.
But Helen... Helen was the one you knew you could always turn to.
She walked along the sunny street, on her way to the small frame house where Chief Hadley lived. It was a pleasant, tree-lined area. You didn’t hear many children, however. Most of the houses here were filled with retirees. They’d raised their own tribes. Now, when you did hear kids, it was grandchildren come to visit Grandma and Grandpa.
As long as she’d known him, Chet Hadley had driven a blue Dodge. With blackwalls. And no fancy chrome. Hadley had a cousin over in Cedar Rapids who could get him a good deal on such a beast, so whenever the new models came in for the year, Hadley scooted over to Cedar Rapids (or CR, as most people around here called it) and got himself a new car. Only within the last few years had he broken down and gotten a car with air-conditioning in it. He still didn’t have a cassette player.
It was lunchtime, so the Dodge was in the narrow driveway. Chief Hadley was a man of habits. Unless there was some sort of crisis, he was always home at twelve exactly for lunch. And he always went back to the office at five of one. Before she knocked, Helen knew she’d hear the sounds of Paul Harvey on the radio inside. Hadley never missed Paul Harvey, either. He considered Rush Limbaugh, a man who’d taken a lot of his show from Harvey’s, to be nothing more than a loudmouth upstart. Harvey was still his man.
Beth Hadley answered the door. She wore, as usual, a flowered housedress, an apron, heavy black oxfords, and a somewhat anxious smile. She was greatly intimidated by the Senator and his sister.
“I just wondered if I could sneak in and talk to your husband a few minutes.”
“Why, sure, Helen. He’d be glad to see you. C’mon in.”
The house was like the Dodges Hadley bought, nothing fancy. There was a flower-patterned couch, a few Ethan Allen end tables and lamps, and a large Zenith TV console. The house was dust-free and spotless. Beth was a relentless housekeeper. The local wisdom was that since the Chief and she couldn’t have children — her being the problem, not him — she’d taken the maternal instincts out on her house.
A toilet flushed upstairs.
Beth smiled with a certain embarrassment, obviously wishing that her husband hadn’t chosen this exact moment to flush. Bodily functions didn’t need to be advertised.
“He’ll be right down.”
“Thanks, Beth.”
“Would you like coffee or anything?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, for gosh sakes, you can at least sit down.”
And with that, Beth flew across the room and brushed off a couch cushion, as if it had been covered with dust.
Helen thanked her and sat down.
“It’s awful about that Fuller girl, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” Helen said.
“At least they got the right man, anyway,” Beth said. “Chet still can’t think about the Baxter thing without getting upset. He doesn’t want another one of those.”
Five years ago, a man named Mike Baxter worked nights at a convenience store. Graveyard shift. Somebody came in around two o’clock and shot him three times. No killer, no murderer, was ever discovered. These were the scariest kinds of murders to lawmen and private citizens alike. The idea of somebody just driving around out there, and then just stopping in and killing somebody...
“That’s all he could talk about at lunch,” Beth said. “How this wasn’t going to be like the Baxter case.”
Steps on the staircase. The sight of a pair of brown Hush Puppies oxfords. The cuffs of dark pants. Slowly, Chief Hadley came into sight. With his fluffy white hair and puffy cheeks, he looked more and more like Santa Claus. The sloping belly didn’t hurt the effect, either.
“Well, Helen,” Hadley said, obviously both surprised and pleased to see her.
Fifteen years ago, Chet’s brother had been about to lose his farm. This was back in the eighties, when so many family farms were being shut down by banks. Chet had gone to Helen and Helen had made a couple of calls to a good friend of hers who was close to the president, and that friend then promptly called somebody in the Department of Agriculture... and Chet’s brother kept his farm.
Chet Hadley had a special affection for Helen and David Cummings, and God help anybody who gave them grief of any kind.
“You like some coffee, Helen?”
“No, thanks, Chet. Beth already offered me some.”
“You like a Pepsi or something?”
“I’m fine, Chet. Really.”
Beth said, “Well, this sounds like business, so I’m going to go back to cleaning my oven. Nice to see you, Helen.”
“Nice to see you, too, Beth.”
Beth nodded and left the room.
“You’ve got a good woman there, Chet.”
He smiled. “And believe me, I know it. Thick and thin that woman’s been with me. Thick and thin.” He sat down in an ancient rocking chair that he always told her had belonged to his grandfather.
“I ever tell you where I got this chair?” he said now.
Helen almost smiled. “No, Chet, I don’t believe you did.”
“My Grandpa Flaherty brought it over here all the way from Ireland.”
“It’s beautiful.”