waiting for Poppin’ Fresh over there to get back.’
Samuels glanced over like he heard us, said something to the receptionist, still clutching her necklace, but didn’t take his eyes off us.
‘What are they talking about?’ Jenny whispered.
‘He’s telling the Drake to get your mom down here.’
‘What about you?’ I asked.
Rudy gave a tight smile. ‘My old man is on his way. The Drake said he sounded worried on the phone and would rush right down but you know that’s crap. Hell, I’m just enjoying my last few moments of living before he gets here.’
I shuddered at the thought of seeing Rudy’s dad. The notorious Bung-Eye Buchanan. I crossed my fingers Jenny and me would be gone before he arrived.
I glanced at Gloria but could see only Mr Wakefield. Grim look on him. Arms folded over his chest. Black moustache set in a straight line. White shirt, beige suit-jacket on the chair behind him. Called out of work, even this early on a Saturday. No wonder Gloria looked so upset.
Samuels, still at the reception desk, took out a handkerchief, swept it over his face and the back of his neck. It came away limp. I could see why people called him a joke. Bad genes made him too pale for a place like this. Waxy white skin and blotchy red cheeks, he couldn’t run a hundred yards without wheezing. He was mashed potatoes. He was rice pudding. All starch and sugar stuffed into a straining blue uniform.
‘Stay put,’ the sheriff said as he strolled past, small black eyes tagging us, one by one.
As he opened the door to the office, Mr Wakefield surged upward and his voice, like a warning siren, too loud, shrill edge to it, filled the room.
‘About goddamn time, Len.’
Mr Wakefield’s eyes locked on us, narrowed at Rudy. He paused, just a second, then, as calm as he was angry a moment before, said, ‘I’m sure you have good reason to call me in here on a Saturday. How can my Gloria help?’
Samuels closed the door and the sounds muffled. Gloria sat rigid the whole time and me, Jenny and Rudy had no idea what to say to each other. My attention flitted from Gloria, her now smiling father, to the Drake, dialling, tutting, then resetting the telephone.
She tried a few more numbers. Momma was known to go to Gum’s and spend the night there when she was too sauced to drive. The Drake asked for our home number and I called it out to her. I gripped my hands together in my lap, prayed there’d be no answer, prayed Momma wouldn’t be woken by the phone and storm down here, still sodden, and take it out on Jenny the moment we were alone.
After the third try, the Drake crowed, ‘Where’s your mother? She int home or drinkin’.’
She was home, I knew, just sleeping it off. Wake the dead more likely than waking Momma on a Saturday morning.
‘Why don’t you try the church?’ Jenny said. ‘Don’t the Gardening Society meet on a Saturday morning?’
I flinched at the cruelty in Jenny’s voice. Momma didn’t set foot in church, and the Gardening Society? Mrs Ponderosa and Momma hated each other, old classmates, beauty queen rivals. A stolen boyfriend here and there and the whole town knew it. Those women say Patty Royal is about as likely to rise early on a Saturday to talk God and rose bushes as a snake growing legs.
The Drake stared for a moment then picked up the receiver and dialled.
Jenny smirked. Rudy nudged her. They sniggered.
‘Stop it,’ I said and Jenny looked stung. I almost told Mrs Drake to ignore her, Momma would be sleeping is all and wouldn’t hear the ringing, but the call connected before I could.
‘Yes, hello, pastor,’ she said, and turned away, cradled the phone, spoke quietly so we couldn’t hear.
A few minutes later, the Drake put the phone down and the reception went quiet. No more dialling. No more clipped, disdainful remarks. Just muffled voices from the office. Samuels and Wakefield. Not a peep from Gloria.
I rested my head on the wall. Watched the clock. Jenny and Rudy chatted about something, school maybe or plans for after. Getting out of Larson, how, when, where to? Pretty much all Rudy and Jenny talked about when they were together. I’d heard it all before. LA. Movie star. A million bucks and a beach house. Won’t it be great, Johnny, you can all come on vacation and we’ll go swimming in the ocean. Fat chance, bucko, I thought, I’ve got all the swimming I need here in Big Lake and Barks reservoir, who wants the stinking, salty ocean when you’ve got good, rich Mississippi run-off? Good enough for my fields, good enough for me. Can’t grow corn in salt, after all.
The office door opened. The muffle cleared.
‘Thanks for coming down,’ Samuels said, one hand on the door, one held out to Gloria’s father.
Mr Wakefield shook it. ‘Anytime, Len, anytime. Glad to hear nothing more will come of this. Gloria is a good girl, despite her choice of friends.’
Gloria scowled at her father but he didn’t notice. I smiled at her tiny defiance, that’s our Gloria. Then my smile faded. What had she told them? Was she in trouble? Was it our turn now?
Mr Wakefield’s eyes squinted again, moustache curled on one side. ‘Up for re-election this year, right, Len?’
He spoke slowly, as if each word was heavy and full like a water balloon Samuels had to catch.
‘I am.’
Mr Wakefield nodded, released the sheriff’s hand and took his jacket from the back of the chair. The three of them stepped out of the office. Gloria kept her head down, her gaze away from us, only occasionally looking up to her father. My teeth clenched. I felt Jenny shift through the chair.
‘Good luck with it, Len, you know you’ve got my vote,’ Mr Wakefield said. ‘Let’s hope that poor girl and this whole sorry affair is put to bed as soon as possible. We can’t have anything derailing your campaign. An unsolved murder is a bitter pill for voters to swallow.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr Wakefield,’ Samuels said, smiling tightly. ‘This one’s a nasty case for sure, but cut and dry all the same. It’ll be easy to wrap up.’ Samuels clapped Mr Wakefield on the shoulder.
Mr Wakefield folded his jacket over his arm, kept that smile and that squint. ‘That’s good, Len. Real good.’
I looked at Jenny. Something sparked in me. Did they know who did it? Who killed Mora? Easy to wrap up. Maybe they already had suspects. Maybe they already had a guy in custody, behind one of those closed doors, and we were just witnesses. They just needed us to fill in some blanks so they could nail the bastard against the wall.
I leaned in to Jenny, these new thoughts burning through me. ‘Everything is going to be okay.’
She tried to smile but I knew she didn’t believe me.
Mr Wakefield put his hand on his daughter’s back. ‘Time to go, honey.’
Gloria finally looked at us, opened her mouth to speak, but her father made a soft zzt sound and guided her toward the door.
Before they got halfway, the door opened and Pastor Jacobs strode in, straight to reception.
‘Morning, Mrs Drake. How is your Walt doing? I hear he’s finally got that ’39 Lincoln up and running?’ The pastor’s thick voice, heavy and rich enough for a church, filled the reception area.
‘Up, running, and bleeding us dry,’ she said.
The pastor laughed, said something I didn’t catch but it must have been sweet as the Drake’s cheeks lit up red.
‘You called about John and Jenny Royal,’ he said.
He saw us a second later, said his thanks to the Drake and walked over. He passed by Mr Wakefield, the man stuck in his spot since the pastor walked in. Their eyes met. Held. Then broke