Out the Summerhill Road: A Novel

Finding Mary Martha

152 Out the Summerhill Road Finding Mary Martha The news is all over town. Everybody has heard it. Jackson Morris has come back home. Been back six months. A year. A few weeks. Who knows? Folks say Jackson has most likely been holed up somewhere, but this morning he came out of hiding and made three stops in Cold Springs. The first stop was at the First National Bank where he deposited a cashier’s check to add money to the account he had set up for a house he was building somewhere in the country. “I want to be sure the paperwork’s in place so that Mr. Peterson can sign all checks on that account,” he said. Albert Aston was all smiles when he heard about the deposit . Fifty thousand dollars was a respectable amount of money. And the cashier’s check was written on a London bank. Cold Springs didn’t get many deposits from overseas banks. His next stop was at Orr’s Chevrolet where he paid cash for a Ford tractor. Then Jackson, accompanied by Oscar Peterson , appeared at the Wendle Brothers’ auction in New Boston and bought another dozen Angus cows, costing a right smart of cash money. According to Buck Buchanan, Jackson is as polite and good humored as if he had never left Cold Springs under a cloud. By nightfall everybody in town was wondering about all that money. Late that Friday afternoon, folks caught themselves looking up at the sky, half expecting to catch sight of that red prop plane they had heard about. But the sky remained clear. Everybody knows Jackson has come back, but nobody knows what to make of it. They sit back, cross their arms and wait for Jackson to make the next move. f On Tuesday, Willie B. is dusting the chandelier in the living room when Isabel stumbles out of bed, pees and splashes cold Part 4: 1980 • The Murder 153 water on her face. Still in her bright green nightgown, she heads down the hall toward the kitchen for her first cup of coffee. When she glances into the living room and sees Willie B. standing on a chair, dusting the balloon chandelier with a feather duster, she stops. “Willie B. what in the world are you doing?” “What you see. That’s what I’m doing.” “Good lord. What time is it?” “Late,” Willie B. says, too busy to stop her dusting. “You forgetting it’s your bridge day?” “No, I just slept late. I’ve got to get a cup of coffee.” Coming back into the room, Isabel sits on a sofa, holding the cup cradled in her hands. She takes a swallow of coffee. Then another. “Willie B., a morning cup of coffee is one of the pure pleasures of life.” “You having your bridge ladies today?” “Why wouldn’t I be having them?” Willie B. takes hold of the back of the chair and carefully steps down. Holding her feather duster in her right hand she puts both hands on her hips so that the feather duster takes on the air of a saucy dance hall girl’s adornment. “He’s back.” “Jackson.” “How come you didn’t know?” “I went to Dallas yesterday. Drove home late. Who told you?” “I saw him. Knew it was him. He saw me and touched the brim of his hat, like he was just saying, ‘hello.’ Lord, have mercy! A shiver went down my spine.” “Where did you see him? When?” “About ten minutes ago. I was turning into the drive.” At this news, Isabel is suffused with pleasure. She leans forward and, elbows on her knees, rests her chin on hands folded into fists. She sits smiling down at the figure of an oriental 154 Out the Summerhill Road warrior on his horse woven into the rug before her. Jackson had been a warrior of sorts. Willie B. flashes a quick look toward Isabel. “Whatever way you arrange your business, I don’t see it as a reason for a smile.” Isabel shrugs. The phone begins to ring. At the second ring, “Want me to answer it?” “Yes. And tell whoever it is that, yes, I’m having bridge today . Tell them to come early. Say I’m in the shower. And whoever calls next, tell them the same thing. And the shower’s where I’m going right now...