At the first house, an old woman in a striped housedress told me she hadn’t seen anything. She minded her own business, she said, and didn’t see why others couldn’t do the same.
At the second house, a younger woman with a baby on her hip said she didn’t have time to pay attention to what went on outside her own yard. Besides, if this was a come-on to get her to buy something, I could forget it. Her husband had lost his job at the supermarket, and they were collecting unemployment.
No one was home at the next house, and the one after that had two German shepherds in the yard. They barked and jumped on the fence and looked at me hungrily. I decided to bypass that one.
Crossing the street, I found an old man working in his garden. No, he said, he hadn’t noticed anything, but had I ever seen such beautiful marigolds as his?
Truthfully I said I hadn’t.
The old man plucked one and gave it to me. I slipped it through the buttonhole of my jacket and went on.
The neighboring house was vacant. At the next, a woman shouted from behind a closed door for me to go away. Two little boys playing in the yard of the last house said their mother wasn’t home.
I went into the general store and was told to get out unless I was buying something. Finally, I reached the Shorebird Bar and went inside.
It was dark, with a long scarred bar and a fly-specked mirror that reminded me of the Remedy Lounge back home. The bartender’s apron was cleaner, however, and the glasses looked like somebody had taken care in washing them. There were two customers, men at the far end who were shaking dice. I sat down a few stools away from them and ordered a beer. The bartender looked as though he wanted to refuse to serve me, then shrugged and went to get it. When he came back, I asked him about the night of Jane’s death.
He frowned, polishing the bar with a rag. “That was a busy night. Of course, they all are. Ain’t much else to do here but drink. I don’t recall anything unusual, until I heard the sirens.”
“Do many people drive out that way?”
“No. Isn’t much reason to. The police asked me the same question and I couldn’t tell them anything either.” Then he looked at me with suspicion. “Why’re you asking?”
“I’m working with the police.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Lieutenant Barrow.”
Apparently he knew and liked Barrow, for he nodded and called down the bar to the two customers. “Hey, fellows, you remember the night Miz Anthony’s girl got killed?”
They stopped rolling the dice and turned to look at us. They were both bald, one fat and the other skinny, probably in their fifties. The skinny one said, “I sure do, and it’s a damned shame.”
“This lady here is dying to find out who done it.”
They hesitated, exchanging looks.
“She’s okay,” the barkeep said. “She’s helping out a friend of mine on the cops.”
“The cops can use all the help they can get,” the skinny one said.
“Even from a lady,” The other added.
I said, “Were either of you here that night?”
The fat one grinned slyly. “We’re always here. You could call us regulars.
“I’m trying to find out if anyone saw a car driving out to the old pier. It would have been a half hour, maybe an hour before you heard the police sirens.”
They both frowned. Then the fat one nodded. “There was a car, but I’m not sure how long before the sirens.”
“What kind of a car, do you remember?”
“It was a foreign job. I noted it because we don’t get too many around here.”
“Do you recall what kind?”
“I couldn’t put a name to it. It was what you call a sports car. Red. In pretty bad shape. Engine sounded like it had a cough.”
The stirrings of excitement I’d been feeling disappeared. The wonderful machine he had just described was mine.
“Does that help you any?” the fat man asked.
“Some. Did you see any cars before that one?”
He shook his head. “I was just getting here. You want, we could ask some of the other boys.”
“Do that. Thanks.” I stood up. “I’ll stop by again later.”
The bartender nodded and went back to polishing the scarred surface in front of him. The “boys” went back to their dice.
I left and stood outside, looking off toward the pier. My morning’s efforts seemed fruitless and now I wondered why I had even bothered. The police would have canvassed the village thoroughly-and, given their official status, at least would not have been ingloriously chased out of the Crab Shack. I had better get back to town and try Barbara Smith’s sister once again.
“Lady?” The voice came from behind me.
I turned. It was the little girl who had been in the Crab Shack with her mother. She was dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, and had bare feet. Her blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail and secured with a pink plastic barrette.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Rachel.”
“That’s a nice name. Where’s your mom?”
She motioned at the store down the street. “Getting the groceries. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“They say you’re an outsider. We don’t like outsiders here.”
Lord, they taught them young! “Who doesn’t?”
She paused, looking down and running her bare toes through the dust. “My mom. And my dad. Most everybody.”
“What about you?”
She looked up, fixing solemn eyes on my face. “I don’t mind strangers. At least I don’t mind you. And I like your car.”
“You do, huh?”
“Yes. Could I sit in it, do you think?”
“Won’t that make your mom mad?”
She glanced at the store. “She’ll be in there a long time. She has a big list. Can’t I sit in your car? Please!”
“Okay,” I said. “Come on.”
We went down the road and I held the passenger door open for her. Rachel hopped in and began to examine the dashboard. I remained standing beside the car; I was not going to get myself accused of child-stealing.
“Does this radio work?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”
“Please.”
I reached in and put my key in the ignition, then flicked the radio on. A disc jockey’s voice filled the air, going on about the fifties sock hop to be held at Port San Marco High on Saturday. His style was not nearly so frantic as Don’s. Don. Thinking of him gave me a momentary rush of pleasure.
“The radio in my dad’s car is busted,” Rachel said. “It has been for years.”
I turned my attention back to the little girl. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” She turned, her forearms resting on the window, and looked up at me. “The real reason I wanted to sit in the car is to talk about what you were asking back there.” She jerked her head in the direction of the Crab Shack.
I’d suspected she had more on her mind than the MG. “Oh?”
“About the cars the night the lady was killed. I’m not supposed to know about the lady being killed, but I do. And I saw something.”
“Tell me.”
She looked around. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“My mom said not to. She said to forget it so we wouldn’t get involved. You’re never supposed to get involved.”
I squatted down beside the car. “Rachel, your mom is right. Sometimes getting involved is a bad thing. But there are other times when it’s important. Times when you can help other people.”
“Like you?”
“Like me.”
She considered this solemnly. “Knowing about the car will help you?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“A whole lot.”
She nodded as if she’d already known that. Then she said, “There’s this Garfield doll at the store. I’ve been saving up for it, and I’ve almost got enough. But I need two more dollars.”