“Vernon. I had to forward some mail to them.”

  I frowned. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s about forty miles north of here.”

  “How long ago did they move?”

  “Oh, about seven or eight years ago. I don’t remember for sure. I heard they bought an old farm outside of town.”

  “Do they still live there?”

  “I don’t know. I never knew them personally.”

  “How do I get to Vernon?”

  “Take Highway 385 north to County Road 26. It’s out in the middle of nowhere. Here, let me write it down.” He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and jotted down the directions. “There’s not much in Vernon, except they do have a nice school there for the kids in that area. That farm is west of Vernon. I don’t remember the road, but you go south about two miles. Look for a farm on the west side of the road. It’s the only one for miles.”

  I thanked him and left. I topped off the gas tank again, stopped at a local tavern for a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then began the journey to Vernon. It took me over an hour to get to County Road 26, but it gave me time to think about what I’d say if I found the Pattersons. I couldn’t very well tell them that I knew Edith and Ruby, since it appeared the Pattersons were in on whatever the girls were hiding. And the story of growing up in the area would only get me so far. So, how could I get the information I needed? Then something occurred to me. The country was due for another census the following year, so I could pretend to be a census taker. It wasn’t likely the Pattersons would know exactly when someone would call on them about the census. And this ploy would allow me to ask them plenty of questions.

  Once I’d made up my mind what to do, I fought off boredom. Eastern Colorado is flat and without a lot of character. I felt like I was the only man on earth as I passed empty fields that lost themselves in the horizon. I didn’t see a single car until I neared Vernon, a tiny town with few streets. I stopped at the only store in town and asked for directions to the Patterson farm, and was told it was on County Road BB. I headed farther west, and ten minutes later found the county road. I turned south as I’d been told to do, and I finally came upon the Patterson place.

  After my encounter with Mrs. Hoffman, I was wary. I parked at the end of the road and studied the house. It was a run-down single story that was in dire need of paint, but the windows were clean and the area around the house was tidy. A barn behind the house was weathered and gray. Two huge maple trees towered over the barn, nice shade in the summer, but bare now. Typical farm property in eastern Colorado. I didn’t see a car or truck anywhere.

  I watched for five minutes, and when nothing happened, I eased down the drive and approached the house. I parked in front and cautiously got out. I stood with the door open and listened. Only a cold stillness. Then a woman came around from the back of the house. She was a spindly woman in a long coat that was too big for her small frame. She had dark hair that fell around square shoulders. She held a basket of folded laundry in her hands, much less dangerous than a shotgun. She saw me, and a curious look crossed her face.

  “Hello,” she called out.

  I shut the door and walked toward her.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Much more friendly than Mrs. Hoffman.

  I smiled. “I hope so.”

  Just then, a boy who was about six ran around the corner of the house. He came up behind her and stared at me as he fiddled with buttons on his coat. And I suddenly knew what Edith and Ruby were hiding.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The boy was the spitting image of Edith Sandalwood. He had the same blond hair, dark eyes and round face. He pursed his lips at me, and it was like seeing Edith as she sat unhappily at the Rexall the other day while she talked to her sister Ruby.

  “May I help you?” the woman repeated, her tone light and curious.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Patterson?”

  “Yes. Call me Gladys.”

  “My name is Dewey Webb and I’m with the Census Bureau. If you have time, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Why, yes. I didn’t know the census was due.”

  “It’s just getting started.”

  “Here, Gerry, take this.” She handed the laundry basket to the boy, fiddled with her hair, and then smoothed her dress. She started for the front door. “Come on in.”

  Gerry hefted the basket with both hands and staggered after us into the house. We entered into a small kitchen with an old range, a sink with a pump, and a large oak table and four chairs. Faded wallpaper covered the walls, and the wood floors were rough. It was simple and clean.

  She shrugged out of the coat and hung it on a peg near the door. “Gerry, take those clothes into my room, and then finish your chores.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He went through a door to the right with the basket, then reappeared empty-handed. He stared shyly at me for a second, then ran out the front door.

  “May I offer you a cup of coffee?” Gladys asked.

  “That would be nice.”

  She gestured at a chair. “Sit over here near the heater, where it’s warmer.”

  I took a seat where she’d indicated, by a cast-iron space heater, and relished the warmth. I took off my hat and rested it on my knee. Some papers, a bag of tobacco and rolling paper, and some yarn were on the table. She moved them aside, poured coffee from a pot on the stove and set it down in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It gets mighty cold out here on the plains.”

  “Yes, it does.” She sat down opposite me, took a shawl from the chair back, and wrapped it around herself, then waited.

  I took a sip of the coffee. Weak and bitter. It’d probably been sitting for a while. I took a notebook and pen out of my coat pocket and pretended to be official.

  “Now,” I said, then smiled at her. “Your full name?”

  “Gladys Catherine Patterson.”

  I wrote it down. “And the address here is…”

  She told me and I added it to the notepad. I’d been a much younger man the only time I’d had to answer any census questions, but I did my best to remember what they were.

  “How long have you lived here?” I began.

  “About eight years.”

  I feigned interest. “And you moved here from?”

  “Limon.”

  “I see.” I noted that. “And there is a head of household?”

  “My husband, Ralph.”

  “Is he here now?”

  She shook her head. “He had to go into Burlington for feed.”

  “And Ralph’s only work is this farm?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Do you work?”

  “No.”

  “How much money did your husband make from the farm last year?”

  “I don’t know for sure. We get by.”

  I glanced around at the sparse surroundings. They were getting by, but I suspected just barely.

  “We’ll check with your husband later.” I took another sip of coffee and continued. “How many children do you have?”

  “Just Gerry.” She spelled the name for me.

  “He must be about six or seven?”

  “He’s six,” she said.

  I nodded. “So he was born in Limon?”

  “Yes, I mean, uh…no, he was born in Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska?”

  “Yes, he –”

  The door burst open and Gerry ran into the kitchen. “Mother, what can I do now?” he interrupted.

  Gladys leaped to her feet, startled. “Aren’t you doing your chores?”

  “I finished,” he said.

  “Is there ice in the water trough?” she asked.

  He pouted. “I didn’t check.”

  “Go do that, and make sure the stalls in the barn are cleaned out.”

  “But, Mother, that’s not part of my chores.”

  “Do it,” she said, her tone stern.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gerry turned and plodded out the door.

  Gladys moved over to a window and peered out. Then she looked back at me. “What were you saying?”

  “Gerry was born in Nebraska?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re his mother?”

  An almost imperceptible hesitation. “Yes.”

  She was lying. And she knew that I knew it. Her eyes held fear. I waited, careful not to press too much. I didn’t want her getting suspicious and kicking me out.

  “His momma got into some trouble,” she finally said in a small voice, “but she couldn’t care for him, so we took him in. We never officially adopted him.” She glanced out the window again, then at me. “He doesn’t know.”

  “I see.”

  “This,” she gestured at my notepad, “doesn’t need to be reported, does it?”

  I had no idea what the government would do, but I had the information I wanted. “I’ll note he was born here.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

  I asked a few more questions, then put the notepad and pen away. “I think I have everything for now. Someone will be around to follow up with a few more questions for your husband, just routine.” I stood up and put on my hat.

  “I’ll let him know to expect it.”

  “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “My pleasure,” she said hurriedly. She was ready for me to leave.

  She followed me outside and watched as I got in the Plymouth, then waved as I drove off. I circled back through Vernon to County Road 26. The sun was low in the sky, and it created a glare as I turned south, but by the time I reached Limon, dusk had settled in, along with a light but steady snow.

  I gassed up again, and then decided to stop in at the Cozy Bar for a drink. I’d been driving a lot today, and I wanted to see if the snow would pass. I didn’t want to start back to Denver and get caught in the middle of nowhere during a storm.

  When I walked into the bar, a jukebox was playing “Lovesick Blues,” the only Hank Williams song I knew. A long wooden bar was near the back wall and some cowboys in leather boots and hats sat on barstools, drinking and talking. When the door opened, they turned and eyed me, the stranger, carefully. I stepped up to the bar.

  “Scotch,” I said to the bartender.

  He studied me with inquisitive eyes. “Passin’ through?”

  “Going to Denver, but I’m not sure about this weather.”

  “Supposed to get a few inches. Not much, but it can blow out there on the highway.”

  “I should probably stay here for the night.”

  “There’s a good motel down the street,” he said. He put a shot of Scotch down in front of me.

  I downed it, then gestured for another. He poured it and I paid him, nodded at the cowboys, and took my drink to a booth in the corner, where I could look out the window at the falling snow. I hadn’t planned to spend the night, and I was feeling sore. I’d rather go home and be with my wife and son. I nursed my Scotch, lit a cigarette, and thought about Clara. We’d only been married two years, but it seemed longer. I’d come home from the war with dark memories I couldn’t seem to shake, but she’d helped me start to escape them. She had her own painful past as well. Even though she hadn’t served in the war, she’d suffered her own pain and loss when her fiancé hadn’t returned. We’d felt that pain in each other, and through each other, we’d seen a way out of it.

  Then my thoughts turned to Edith and a scenario formed in my mind. She’d married Gordon Sandalwood, and he’d immediately gone off to war. Then she’d met someone else and had gotten pregnant. Rather than tell her husband about her affair and baby, she’d gone to live with Ruby. She stayed out of sight until she had the baby, then gave him to the Pattersons, who seemed willing to keep her secret. So, I wondered, was the man in the pork pie hat blackmailing Edith, threatening to inform her husband about her son if she didn’t pay up? That seemed like an easy bet.

  Outside the window, wind whipped light snowflakes around and I pondered what to do next. I had a lot of questions for Edith. Had she wanted to give up her baby? Had Ruby forced her to? Who was the baby’s father? Could he be blackmailing her? I shook my head in disgust. I couldn’t answer those questions until I got back to Denver, which wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  I brooded for a bit longer, then downed the last of my Scotch, crushed out my cigarette, and walked out the door. I found the motel farther down on Main Street, paid for a room, and then used a pay phone to call Clara.

  “Hello,” she answered, her voice cheery.

  “It’s me. I’m stuck in Limon,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  I explained about the snow.

  “We had a dusting here, but it’s gone.”

  “The storm’s here now.”

  “I’ll miss you, but you’re better off not driving tonight,” she said. “Is everything going okay?”

  “Would you ever…”

  “What?”

  I hesitated. “Do you ever think about other men?”

  “Dewey!” she said. “What’s this about?”

  “Ah, I don’t know.”

  “Sweetheart, there’s only you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this about a case?”

  “I can’t put anything past you.”

  “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”

  I shook my head as if she could see me. “It’s nothing,” I finally said.

  I didn’t usually talk business with Clara, so I changed the subject, and we chatted for a few minutes about her day, and about Sam before we hung up. Then I took the paper out of my wallet with Gordon Sandalwood’s home phone number. I fed more coins into the slot and called him.

  His greeting was gruff, but he turned eager when he realized who it was.

  “What’d you find out?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Not a whole lot,” I said evasively. I wanted to talk to Edith before I shared anything with him. I figured I’d tell her what I knew, and let Edith tell her husband about her affair. Better he should hear it from her rather than me. And then, if she was being blackmailed, I could help them, if they wanted me too. “Give me another day or two to see what I can turn up.”

  “Take whatever time you need,” he said.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and went to my room. And then I remembered Opal from the café, and Mrs. Hoffman mentioning the dark-haired fellow who was poking around Limon. He wasn’t the same man Edith had met in the park. Who was he, and was he still in Limon?

  I peeked out the window to the parking lot. A few other cars were parked there along with my Plymouth. I locked the room door and checked my gun before I went to bed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The storm passed during the night, and the sun was already melting the snow when I left the motel. I wanted to avoid Opal and Earl, for fear that they’d ask me why I was still in town, or that they’d poke holes in my story about knowing Edith and Ruby. So I grabbed breakfast at a different café, and then drove back to Denver.

  I arrived just after ten and stopped at my office, which was two rooms on the second floor of the old Victorian. The outer office served as a waiting room, with a small couch and a desk for a secretary. I didn’t make enough money to afford anyone, but I kept a typewriter and phone there, so it looked professional. An accountant had an office at the other end of the hall, and his secretary could see my door. If she saw that I had visitors, she’d take a message and slip a note under my door.

  The inner office wasn’t much bigger than the waiting room. I’d furnished it with an old oak desk, a small leather couch, two club chairs across from my desk, and a file cabinet in the corner. Nothing hung on the walls, and the only personal item was a picture of Clara that sat on the desk. It faced east and the sunlight that came through the window warmed an otherwise chilly room. It wasn’t much, but since I wasn’t there often, it was all I needed.

  I took care of some paperwork, and then called Clara to let her know I was back in town and that I’d be home later in the day. Then I dialed Sandalwood’s office to make sure he wasn’t home with Edith.

  “Sandalwood,” he barked into the phone.

  Good. That confirmed that he was at his office. I hung up quickly and dialed his home phone number.

  “Hello?” Edith’s silky voice said.

  She was home. I hung up again, donned my hat, and headed to the Sandalwood house. If my luck stayed true, she would still be there by the time I arrived.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, I was standing on the Sandalwood front porch. The street was quiet as I rang the bell and waited. A moment later, Edith opened the door.

  “Mrs. Sandalwood?” I asked.

  “Yes?” she said. She wore a bright blue dress and her hair was perfectly coiffed, but her face was drawn with worry.

  I went for the blunt approach. “You’re in some trouble.”

  “Wha –” she stammered. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Dewey Webb. I’m a private detective.” I took out my wallet and showed her my license. “Your husband hired me to follow you.”

  “Why, I…whatever for?” She was trying for cool and collected, but she was stumbling over herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I gave her a hard look. “He thinks something’s going on with you, and he’s right.”

  She wrung her hands, then glanced out into the street, worried that someone might see us talking. “You better come inside.”

  I followed her into a living room with a white tufted sofa and two armchairs, maple coffee table and end tables, and a floor-model Zenith radio that was playing jazz. The walls were covered in striped wallpaper and a fireplace in the corner had ashes and the remnants of a burned log in it. It would’ve been cozy, if not for the tension thick in the air. She sat on the edge of the sofa, then gestured for me to sit in the armchair.

  “What do you think is going on?” Her voice was strained.

  Good move on her part, to see what I knew, and then she could cover for herself.

  “I saw you meet a guy in the park last Friday,” I countered.

 

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