Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

He stood, along with Archer. Marjorie, showing a nimbleness that Archer certainly had not expected, rose off the davenport, came around the table, and put a hand on Shaw’s arm.

“What am I to do about these debts and such?”

Shaw looked taken aback by the query. “Ma’am, I don’t know. You’d have to check with someone. I suppose your husband had a lawyer.”

“I think he did.”

“And he owns the bank,” added Archer. “They might know something, too.”

Marjorie looked unsure. “Yes, but I’ve never had to deal with those people.” She gripped Shaw’s arm tighter. “Do you... do you think these people might come here? These people from Las Vegas? Am... am I in any danger?”

Shaw said firmly, “If anyone comes here and makes any threats whatsoever, you let me know immediately. Don’t know about Nevada, but we frown on that hereabouts.”

“Yes, of course, thank you.”

As they walked out of the house Shaw said, “That poor woman looked like she just saw a freight train coming right for her.”

“Let’s hope it’s not coming our way, too,” replied Archer.

“No business papers around here that I know of,” said Sid Duckett.

They’d found him sitting on the front stoop of his small cottage smoking a fat cigar.

“So Mr. Pittleman never gave you anything like that? To hold for him or whatnot?”

“Naw. If something needed doing, he just told me, and it got done. For papers and such, you’d have to ask Mr. Draper that.”

“And where is Mr. Draper now? At the Derby?” Shaw wanted to know.

“Don’t know. Not the man’s keeper.”

“If you see him, will you let him know I want to talk to him?”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Archer said, “Draper carries a gun. He said it was because of the warehouse.”

“That’s right.”

“But the other guys at the warehouse weren’t carrying guns,” noted Archer as Shaw looked on.

“Don’t know what to tell you about that. Man wants to carry a gun, he can carry a gun.”

“You don’t,” said Archer.

“Never saw a need to.”

“Mr. Pittleman ever mention any money troubles to you?” asked Archer.

Duckett laughed. “Money troubles? Hell, he’s the richest man around here. Maybe the whole state far as I know. I mean, just eyeball that house ’a his. Look to you like the house of a man with money troubles?”

“Well, looks can be deceiving. Your wages ever been late in coming or not come in full?”

“Not one time.”

“Well, rumor has it they might not make full payroll this week at the slaughterhouse,” retorted Archer.

Duckett now showed more animation than he ever had before. “The hell you say. What else do you know about that?”

Archer was about to say something when Shaw interrupted. “You tell Draper if you see him, I want to talk to him, you hear?”

“Yes sir.”

They drove back to Poca City. Along the way Archer said, “The man was spooked about Pittleman maybe not being rich and the wages not being paid.”

“Yeah, he was. But listen, Archer, you can’t go around telling folks stuff they don’t know unless you got a damn good reason to do so.”

Archer shot him a glance. “You think I messed up back there by mentioning the money problems?”

“I don’t know, son, maybe so.”

Archer looked chagrined and said nothing more on the trip back.

Shaw dropped him off near where he had met him.

“What about Draper?” asked Archer.

“I’ll check to see what room he’s in. If he’s there, I’ll talk to him. You go get some rest.”

“You mean that, or you just don’t want me messing things up any more?”

“Maybe a little of both. You sure you got a place to stay the night?”

“I’m good.”

“You gonna go back to butcher hogs tomorrow?”

“Not sure. I don’t like working for free.”

Shaw rolled an unlit stogie around in his mouth before sticking it under his hatband. “How about I pay you the same rate as they do, if you go back there?”

“What, why?”

“I checked on your Army record. You were a brave man, Archer. Lots of medals and all. And you were a scout.”

“So what?”

“So maybe you can be a scout again. My scout. Go back to work at the slaughterhouse tomorrow, and keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Well, okay.”

“But don’t talk unnecessarily,” the lawman admonished. “You never know what people are gonna do with what you tell ’em.” Shaw opened his wallet and held out five dollars. “Here’s an advance. I hear tell you like advances.” He cracked a grin.

Archer took the money. “You sure this is kosher, Detective?”

“My job is to catch a killer, Archer. And I’ll do it any way I see fit.”

Shaw drove off and Archer hoofed it to Ernestine’s. However, she didn’t answer the door. He looked at his watch. She might be out. Maybe over at the Cat’s Meow. Or having a late dinner at the Checkered Past.

He tried the back door, but it was locked. He took the clasp knife from his pocket and worked the bolt back enough to free it from the doorjamb. He walked into the kitchen and saw pots and pans in the sink. He looked in the fridge and saw a plate wrapped over. The truth occurred to him.

She made me dinner and I never showed up.

Archer felt badly about that but couldn’t do anything about it right now.

Despite washing up in the Derby’s hall bath earlier, he still stank.

He decided another bath would not be a bad thing.

He went in search of the bathrobe that Ernestine had provided before and found it in her bedroom closet. As he was about to shut the door, he saw it: The scrapbook that had been under the pillow was now on the shelf in the closet.

He hauled it down and sat on the floor and turned the pages slowly past what he’d already seen, until he came to something interesting.

It was a news story about Jewell Crabtree, the widow of Carson and mother of Ernestine. She had climbed into her Chrysler one night, while it was in the garage, and after stuffing a sheet in the tailpipe, started it up and expired on the front seat, leaving behind a note that was addressed to her daughter. There was another picture of Ernestine along with this story, and she was no longer drab or dour. Several years had passed since her father’s execution, and her height and beauty had been realized, but her features were stoic — perhaps too stoic, thought Archer. This version of the woman he could reconcile with the parole officer as he had first met her.

The last thing in the scrapbook of interest was a letter. Perhaps it was the one mentioned in the news article. It was in a pink envelope with the name Ernestine scrawled in pen on the outside. Archer slipped out the note inside and unfolded it.

Dear Ernestine,

My lovely, lovely child. First and foremost, your father loved you very much. And please do not feel any other way with regard to that. What he did, he did out of his love for you and for no other reason. Any action taken in the past should not affect what you do with the rest of your life. Please live your life with that firmly in mind, and please have a happy life, my dear, dear child. Choices were made by many, Ernestine, and many of them were flawed choices. But choices have consequences, and we all must live with those consequences. But take that sad past and turn it into something positive, my dear child, and don’t look back, only forward. Love, your mother.

He sat back against the bed and contemplated all that he had just read. He had to confess that he couldn’t really make heads or tails of it, but his heart was mightily saddened by the abundance of tragedies in Ernestine Crabtree’s past.