“What was her name?”
“Isabel.”
“Pretty name. What’s that, Spanish?”
“She was from Brazil. Mr. Tuttle traveled there for business when he was younger, and they met. They married and came back here, where they had Miss Tuttle.”
“Was Isabel sick? Is that how she died?”
“No. She died in an accident.”
“Sorry to hear that. What kinda accident?”
“It was just a horrible, horrible accident. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Were she and Jackie close?”
“Isabel adored her daughter and that adoration was returned.”
“Maybe that’s why she left. Because she was so heartbroken about her mother.”
Desiree looked at him funny and said, “I’m sure that was part of it.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see a picture of Isabel?”
“Sure.”
Desiree led him down another hall and opened a door into a large and comfortable sitting room with several oval windows that looked out onto the stark fields behind the house.
Archer took it all in. Big, solid furniture, colorful rug on the Spanish tile floor, paintings on the wall depicting countryside and wildlife, and a stone fireplace that rose to the ceiling. A mantel of petrified wood fronted the stone with a framed photo on it.
“Mr. Tuttle sure has nice things,” he noted.
“He’s had his ups and downs, but now things are looking up.”
Archer didn’t think the woman sounded too happy about that.
“This is Isabel.”
Desiree had lifted the framed photo off the mantel and held it out to him.
Archer gripped the frame and stared at the woman in the snapshot. She was dark-haired and olive-skinned, and Archer could not remember seeing a lovelier countenance. It wasn’t just the beautiful features, it was the spark of life in the eyes that made his own pair seem dull and unresponsive by comparison.
“So she died about a year ago? That’s when Mr. Tuttle said Jackie had left home.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She took the photo from him and replaced it on the mantel.
Twirling his hat, Archer said, “Why’d you really bring me in here and show me that picture?”
“I just thought you’d like to see Miss Tuttle’s mother.”
“Okay,” said Archer. “And I’m Harry Truman.”
She looked him up and down. “I thought Truman was older and shorter.”
He fiddled with his hat some more. “What do you think about Mr. Tuttle wanting her to come back home?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“And if you did?”
“She’s a grown woman. She should be able to make her own decisions.”
“What sort of accident again?”
“I told you that—”
“I know Jackie and I like her, and I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t really know all the details. Just that it was very tragic. Now, I have some dictation to type up. I’ll show you out.”
“I can find my own way, thanks. You should probably get to your typewriter. Don’t want Tuttle pointing his shotgun at you because you got behind in your typing. It’s a little unsettling.”
Archer left the tidy house, put on his hat, and wondered what the hell all that had been about.
Chapter 7
A hitched ride back with a mother and her bucktoothed, runny-nosed son in a dented Studebaker, with no wheel caps and a rattling sound that signaled the engine was close to throwing a rod, brought Archer to Poca City before the dinner hour. He used the down-the-hall shower to clean off the dust and put his only clothes back on. He set off now to do something about that wardrobe predicament. His long legs took him down the street to a haberdashery about three blocks from his hotel that he had passed on his earlier ramblings.
The old gent in there seemed to be thinking about closing up for the day and contemplating his dinner when Archer strolled in.
“Need some fresh duds,” he said.
The fellow was dressed like a walking billboard for his line of business, down to the cufflinks and the pocket square aligned with an engineer’s precision. “I can sure see that, young man. What can I do you for?”
“To start, let’s get a copy of what I got on now, only better.”
“Well, that’s fine, since I only got better. But can I see your money first? Just a common courtesy from folks I don’t know, is all. This is a respectable establishment.”
“I deal with no other kind.”
The show of the twin twenties was all it took to capture the man’s undivided interest. And it took only an hour to complete the selling and buying. With Archer’s physique and height, nothing needed to be altered, and the man had his girl cuff both pairs of pants on her sewing machine right then and there.
“That’s a damn sight miracle,” said the man of the fine fit. It was a single-breasted Hart, Schaffner & Marx model of a medium blue color with narrow pinstripes. His wide-knotted tie was a bloodred, and the command collar on his Alden dress shirt softened the thickness of his neck. The leather belt holding up his pants was black and braided.
“I like the hat,” said Archer as he peered in the mirror at his new felt snap-brim with a dented crown and a burgundy silk band. He had bypassed the recommendation of a rabbit hair trilby headpiece. His white pocket square had a two-point fold.
“Shoes good? Those wingtips are the very finest leather. You’ll need to keep them conditioned and shined regularly.”
“I’ll break ’em in.”
The man handed him a bag and a hanger with the extra pair of slacks on them. “Two pairs of underwear, same number of socks. And the extra pair of trousers, pleated and cuffed.”
“Right,” said Archer. “I’m good to go.”
His Jacksons had been drastically reduced, although Archer had been surprised that he’d been able to afford the new clothes and shoes for less than forty dollars. The man told him he hadn’t been open that long and was looking to build up his business and thus was giving Archer a deal.
“You look fine in the new duds, so talk my place up to everybody, you hear me?” said the man, and Archer promised that he would. He walked out the door wearing his new clothes. The girl had put his old suit, shirt, and shoes in another bag.
He dropped all this off at the Derby, hung up his old things and new spare pants, and headed out to eat some dinner. The restaurant was named the Checkered Past. Whoever had come up with the names of the places here had a sense of humor, Archer would grant them that.
The sign out front promised steaks and fat potatoes at good prices and coffee until midnight. He entered and took his seat at a table with a red-and-white-checkered cloth covering it and matching napkins. He ordered his steak rare and his coffee piping hot, and afterward sampled the peach cobbler, which was good, the best he’d ever had perhaps. He laid down his coins for the meal, and then plotted out his next steps on the way back to the Derby.
He got up the next morning, cleaned up in the bath down the hall, and headed down to the front desk. “You know where Hank Pittleman has his house?”
The clerk, the same gent who had checked him in the first night, scratched his furry forearms and said, “Why you want to know that?”
“Have business with the man and he told me he spends Saturday and the Sabbath at his home with his wife.”
“Well?”
“I need a way to get out there.”
“Can always walk.”
“How far is it?”
“Take you a good four hours.”
“Any way I can hitch a ride with somebody?”
The man stroked his chin and looked Archer up and down. “Actually, got a delivery going out there this morning. You help with that, it’ll pay for the price of the ride. I can fix it up.”