When Coates Williams saw the decaying frame house he exclaimed, “God almighty! What’s holding it up?”
Rocky Farm was covered with scrub and tangled weeds and boulders. It sat at the bottom of a high cliff that rose precipitously to frown down upon the rapid-running Winding River, a stream colored by the red clay of the southern land that seemed blood-red in the sunset.
There was a tiny curl of smoke from the broken chimney now and the feeble glow of a lamp through one of the windows. Charley Estes parked the car outside the rusting, broken barbed-wire fence and he and his deputy walked up the weed-grown path to the crumbling house.
Charley had prepared himself for it, but when he saw the woman in the shadowy doorway, his stomach went sick. Unclean, mottled flesh that sagged in flaccid sacs on her bones showed through the many rents in her rags. Her graying hair was wildly matted and her mouth was almost toothless. He knocked her teeth out, Charley thought. To make the horror worse, the ragged woman’s misshapen mouth was smiling at Charley expectantly.
Charley cleared his throat. He said, “Martha? I’m Charley Estes. You remember me?”
Her voice was cracked, like a voice that has not been used too often. She said, “Why, of course! You took me to the barn dance that the Knights of Pythias gave! And we had strawberry ice cream at the church social and I spilled some on my nice yellow dress. I’ve been expecting you. I told the man who brings my flowers to invite you out for tea. Come right in and bring your friend. I’ll put the kettle on and show you my flowers and we’ll have a pleasant time. I just love entertaining.”
They entered the littered, unswept room with the broken furniture. It seemed to be a combination kitchen and living room. She motioned them toward rickety chairs, busied herself filling a tea kettle from a hand pump. She put the kettle on the stove in which a fire was burning. She said, “The tea may be a little dry, I’ve saved it so long, but it’s been in a metal can, tight sealed. It’s fine tea, the kind we served in my father’s house.”
Once she had the tea kettle going, she went to the table. It was spread with clippings from the seed catalogue. She had cut out the pictures of roses and African violets and dahlias and had apparently been busy tacking them to the bare walls when her visitors arrived. She said, “I’ve always loved flowers. They’re sent to me every year, you see, by an admirer. Such lovely flowers. Very rare, some of them, too. But my husband, Mr. Purdy, did not fancy flowers. He’s dead now, you know, so I can have all the flowers I want and lots of parties with tea and brandy. Only there’s no cake today, I’m afraid.”
“When did Purdy die?” the sheriff asked.
“Oh,” the woman answered airily, as if it were of no consequence at all, “I think it was around a week or so ago. I’m really not quite sure. I’ve been so busy with my flowers and entertaining. Why, you’re the second visitors I’ve had this very afternoon!”
Estes said, “Tell me how he died, Martha.”
She turned her thin back on him and went to the stove. She said, “The water’s boiling. I’ll give you your tea.”
She shook tea leaves that seemed to have crumbled to dust out of a canister into an old flowered teapot. While they were brewing, she said, “It was an accident.”
“Tell me about it, Martha,” urged Estes, his voice patient and kind.
“We mustn’t let the tea spoil,” she said. She put cups in front of them. They were good china, with flowers painted on them, Charley noted. They had been scrubbed to gleaming brightness that contrasted with the squalor of the room. She said, “This is my best china. A wedding present. I’ve hardly used them. Mr. Purdy did not enjoy tea parties.”
The hands that held the delicate teacups were sandpapery rough and big-knuckled and crossgrained with black dirt and the filth-caked nails were crinkled as tiny clamshells. Estes thought of the times, long ago, he had held Martha Parsons’ hands when they were courting and going to socials and barn dances. They had been tiny then and very white and soft as the petals of a garden flower.
Estes said, “I’ve got to tell you this, Martha. I’m the sheriff now. This here young fellow is named Coates Williams. He’s my deputy. You know what that means, Martha?”
The Scarecrow who was pouring his tea said, “Why, of course, I do, Charley! It means you’re a big success in life, just like I always knew you would be, working and studying so hard. Do you wish a little of my father’s fine brandy in your tea, gentlemen? We’ll drink to your success, Charley.”
The sheriff looked dubiously at the cloudy corn whisky in the half-gallon jug and shook his head. He said, “Coates and I are temperate men, Martha, and we’re on duty. We’ll just have the tea. Now, Martha, when a man dies under what you call suspicious circumstances, like Jeff Purdy did, it’s the duty of the sheriff and his deputy to investigate and to ask some questions, you understand?”
Martha’s swimming eyes regarded Estes for a moment and there was a puzzled look in them. She said, “Well then, ask all the questions you want, Charley, but it will kind of spoil our nice tea party. There was nothing suspicious about Mr. Purdy’s death, though. He just walked up that path to the cliff while he’d been drinking and fell off into Winding River and got carried downstream.”
“Did you see him fall off, ma’am?” Coates Williams asked.
The woman said, “Why, I suppose so. Why, yes, of course I did. I mean he was drinking a lot and I sort of missed him and I went looking for him and I saw him standing up there on the top of the cliff and then he staggered and tumbled off into Winding River. That’s all there was to it.”
Coates looked at Estes as if expecting him to continue the interrogation. The sheriff tried to gulp down the bitter tea. He said nothing.
“What time of day was this, ma’am?” Coates asked.
“Oh, late. I mean it was evening-wards, about dark.”
“It was dark?”
The woman nodded.
“But you said you saw him fall. How could you see him if it was dark? It’s quite a piece from the house to the cliff. A hundred yards, at least, I’d say.”
The woman looked appealingly at Charley Estes. The sheriff did not meet her gaze. He sipped his tea noisily.
Finally Martha Purdy said, “Why, now I remember! There was a big bright moon!”
Coates Williams rose from his chair. He crossed to a corner where an old shotgun was standing against the wall. It was a dusty corner but the gun was not dusty. As he crossed the room, Williams said, “You say he died about a week ago. There’s been rain and clouds over the moon for at least a week in these parts.”
“Not out here!” the woman flared. “We’ve had big, bright moons every single night. They shine right through the window into my eyes and keep me wakeful.”
Coates picked up the gun, smelled the barrel, broke it, examined the chambers. He said to Estes, “One barrel’s been fired, not so long ago, either, I’d guess. There’s a shell in the other one and the safety was left off.”
“That’s right dangerous,” the sheriff commented. “You better click that safety on, Coates. A jar could fire it and hurt somebody.”
The woman licked her dry, cracked lips and once more she looked appealingly at Estes. This time he met her eyes briefly, then he gulped the remainder of the tea in his cup and said, “Martha, that’s right fine tea. How about another cup?”
“Why, certainly!” the woman exclaimed, seeming delighted. “It’s imported tea, very costly, you know. I’m sorry there’s no more cake, but I’ve had so many guests, it’s all gone. I must remember to bake another tomorrow. I use an old family recipe. You remember when my mother’s cake won the blue ribbon at the county fair, Charley?”