Marjorie nodded at these words. “I hope you’re right, dear. I hope so.”
“Did Bart come by? Or was it someone else?”
“No, it was Bart Coleman and the other one. The tall boy.”
“Jeb Daniels.”
“I guess they’ll be looking into this?” interjected Archer.
Marjorie said, “No, I don’t think so. Whenever we have a murder out here, they send in someone from the state police to investigate things.”
“How many murders do you folks have?” asked Archer, his eyes growing wide.
“Well, every place has somebody killing somebody else,” pointed out Jackie matter-of-factly. “And Poca City is no exception.” She patted Marjorie’s hand. “We’ll find out what we can, and then we’ll come see you again. Now you need to get some sleep.” She eyed the glass. “You think that’s a good idea?”
“Better than pills.”
“I suppose.”
“But what about all Hank’s businesses? He never told me anything. I suppose there are things to do.”
“All you need to do right now is get some rest. Here, let me help you up to bed. Archer, I won’t be long.”
The women departed, and Archer was left to his own devices.
He was about to light another Lucky but changed his mind. He stuck it in his hatband for later. He looked out the window. In the rear he could see numerous outbuildings. And cattle in fenced fields. Crops in other fields. Horses in adjacent paddocks. Men and trucks and tractors and dogs racing to and fro. Crop silos rose up from the dirt like the rocket ships Archer had seen in comic books. He had seen all this on his previous trip, too, and it was just as impressive the second time around. There was a lot of business going on here, and the missus of the house didn’t appear to be up for any of it.
He opened the glass door and walked out into the back.
He spotted Sid Duckett holding a clipboard and talking to three other men who looked tired but were listening intently. After the men left, Archer walked over to the big man, who was dressed nearly the same as before, in dirty pants, a tucked-in cotton shirt, dusty boots, and a straw hat.
“Guess you heard the news?”
Duckett nodded.
Archer surveyed all the activity. “A lot going on here.”
“Yeah but it’s not just here. He’s got a lot of businesses. Including a bank.”
“A bank?”
“Man owned First City Bank in Poca. And the Derby Hotel and the Cat’s Meow.”
“Damn, didn’t know about the Cat’s Meow. So, what’ll happen to everything now that the man’s dead?”
Duckett looked toward the house. “The missus don’t really get involved in all that. Maybe sell out?”
Archer scratched his ear. “Hell, who around here can buy all that?”
“Well, there’s Lucas Tuttle.”
“Jackie’s father?”
“That’s right. He’s got a lot of land. I mean a lot. And he’s got money, least so I’ve heard. So how’d he die, Archer, you know?”
“Law says murder.”
“Damn.”
“You think of anybody who’d want to do him in?”
Duckett shook his head. “He could drive a man who works for him hard and don’t I know that. And cut some tough bargains with other folks. But kill the man?” Duckett took off his hat and slapped it against his leg to clear the dust off. “I can’t think of a one.”
“There was at least one.”
He walked back into the conservatory in time for Jackie to reenter the room.
“You ready?” she said.
“I guess so. Was just talking to Sid Duckett out there. He said Pittleman owns a bank and the Cat’s Meow.”
“That’s right. Didn’t you know that?”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that?”
“Don’t snap at me, Archer. I was just asking a question.”
“Anyway, he said Mrs. Pittleman might have to sell out.”
“She might, and she might not. That’s not our concern right now, is it?”
“He said your daddy may want to buy it.”
Jackie looked warily at him. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s Mrs. Pittleman doing?”
“Terrible. She just lost her husband.”
“Good news is, she seemed to like you.”
“I explained that. And, no, she doesn’t like me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. Now I would still like to know where those debt papers are. You got any ideas?”
“Not a one,” lied Archer because it just seemed the smart thing to do right now.
They stopped on the way back at a roadside store and got some cold cider and a bag of peanuts still in their shells.
They sat in the Nash’s front seat, which was so big it seemed capable of holding Archer’s old platoon in its entirety. They ate and drank their fill while an occasional truck or car passed by on the road. They just tossed the shells out the windows. Archer watched as a man on a mule trotted by with a burlap sack over his shoulder.
“What was the war like, Archer?”
He glanced over to see her sweeping peanut skins off the lap of her mourning dress.
“What do you think war’s supposed to be like?”
“I’ve never been to war. It’s why I’m asking. You like your questions and so do I.”
“It wasn’t a lot of fun.”
“Were you wounded?”
He finished his cold cider and laid the empty bottle on the floorboard. “I was.”
“I saw a scar on your back and another one on your leg when we were in bed. Why didn’t they send you home?”
“Because I could still fight.”
“You ever kill anyone?”
“That was sort of the point of me being over there.”
“How’d you do it?”
“What sort of question is that?”
“I’m just trying to understand you.”
“Why’s that?”
“I find you interesting.”
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about the dearly departed Hank Pittleman?”
“I already told you, I’m sorry he’s dead, but it’s not like I loved the man.”
“Do you have to give the house and car back now?”
“It’s up to Marjorie. Which means I won’t be able to keep them. But back to the killing.”
“You won’t let it go, will you?”
“Well?”
“Okay, I shot a bunch of Germans and Italians. Then I killed some with my grenades, and some with my bayonet when it came down to man-to-man slogging it out. Slit one’s throat with my knife. Killed one man with my bare hands when we both ran out of bullets. Broke his neck the way I’d been taught.”
“My God, Archer. That must’ve done something to you.”
“How do you mean?”
“You can’t kill all those people and not be affected by it.”
“It’s what I was trained to do.”
“Didn’t you feel anything?”
“Yeah, I felt damn lucky I was alive, and they weren’t.”
She put the Nash in gear. “Well, I don’t see how it couldn’t have affected you.”
“I don’t think about it much. Seems to work okay.”
“Yeah, well, one day that may not work anymore.”
“How do you know about things like that?”
“I told you I studied psychology in college, Archer. After the First World War, men came back with shellshock, or so they termed it. The human brain was not designed for war. It changes you. You weren’t a killer before you went to war, were you?”
“Never killed anything before I went across the Atlantic. Man or beast.”
“Wait a minute, you never hunted, even?”
“Not much to hunt where I’m from.”
“But then you became a killer in the war.”
“Well, I’m not in the war anymore. And I’m no killer.”