Letter From Home by Carolyn Hart Read Free Book Online Page A

and we did our nails and played records until real late. When I got home nobody was there. I guess it must have been almost midnight. I went to my room and went to bed.”
    â€œDid you see your mama when she got home?” The chief shook out another cigarette, lit it, but his brown eyes watched Barb.
    â€œNo.” Barb slumped against the armrest.
    A car door slammed outside. Steps pounded across the yard. The screen door rattled. “Chief, you in there?” The door opened and Ralph Cooley, his faded brown hat perched on the back of his head, peered inside. His skinny face was flushed, his necktie askew, his blue suit wrinkled. “There you are. H’lo, Gretchen, Mrs. Pfizer.”
    Gretchen had never seen Ralph Cooley when he didn’t look like he’d slept in his clothes. He always reeked of whisky and cigarettes. Gretchen hadn’t known what that smell, sweetish and musky, was until one day in the newsroom when Mrs. Taylor wrinkled her nose and asked him where he was getting his bourbon and Cooley laughed and said he knew the best bootlegger in town. Oklahoma was a dry state allowing 3.2 beer only and the only way to get whisky was to drive to a wet state or go to a bootlegger. Gretchen didn’t know any bootleggers. No one in her family drank whisky. The Tatums drank, which Grandmother didn’t like. She didn’t like whisky and she didn’t like people breaking the law. Sometimes there were stories in the paper about the sheriff arresting somebody for bootlegging.
    The reporter stepped inside. “Mike Mackey called”—the funeral home director always let the Gazette know about accidents—“so I came right over. The doc says somebody strangled Faye Tatum and her daughter ran up here for help.” Cooley’s bleary eyes settled on Barb. “Doc said the girl cut her foot. Okay, Chief, what’s—”
    Chief Fraser held up one hand. “I don’t have time for you, Ralph.”
    The reporter peered around the room. “Where’s Clyde Tatum?”
    Chief Fraser heaved to his feet. “Git.”
    Cooley backed toward the door, his gait just a little unsteady. “I’ll wait outside, Chief.”
    â€œYou deaf, man?” The chief’s heavy face furrowed in ridges deep as sun-cracked dirt. He drew deeply on his cigarette. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.” Under his breath, he added, “Maybe.”
    Cooley moved a little faster, but his slurred words were a taunt. “I saw Faye Tatum tonight at the Blue Light. Me and a lot of men.” The door swung out. “Maybe I should talk to the county attorney.”
    Barb reached out a shaking hand. “You saw Mama?”
    â€œWait out front, Ralph.” The chief spit out the words. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
    Cooley tipped his hat, then banged outside.
    The chief swung around, clumped back to the chair. It creaked as he sat. He took his time, smoked. He still looked mad, but he spoke quietly enough. “All right, Miss Barb. You been working upstairs in the county attorney’s office this summer?”
    Barb nodded.
    â€œThought I’d seen you there. Don’t know how much you’ve learned about the law yet, but Mr. Durwood’s the man who’ll prosecute the case when we find out who killed your mama.” He took a deep breath. “Now, Miss Barb, you’re telling me you never saw your mama all day until you came home for supper and you didn’t talk to her after she got back from the Blue Light. How about your daddy?” The chief took a deep puff. “What time did he get home?”
    Gretchen’s nose wrinkled as smoke roiled toward the couch.
    Barb sat straight up, the sheet falling to the floor. “He didn’t come home. He never came home. He didn’t come home for supper. And he wasn’t home when I got back from Amelia’s tonight.”
    Chief Fraser leaned forward in the