Archer jogged back over to the garage on Fulsome, beating another furious bout of rain by about a minute, and then drove the car out onto the street. He had two places he could go and chose one by taking a quarter from his pocket and performing a coin flip. He punched the gas and the Nash leapt forward, its windshield wipers busily swishing the rain off the glass.
He hoped the clarity of his vision would be able to match that of the cleared glass. But right now that seemed like a stretch.
Chapter 42
Nearly an hour later, Archer pulled to a stop in front of the gates to Marjorie Pittleman’s home. This time Manuel didn’t come to open the gates, so Archer climbed out and did the honors himself. He pulled the Nash through and stopped in front of the enormous house.
He made it to the door with three long strides, knocked the rain off his hat, then rapped on the door. He stepped back when he heard footsteps approaching. The door was opened by Agnes, the same elderly woman in a maid’s uniform who had been there before. And her look of disinterest had accompanied the woman yet again.
“Yes?”
“You remember me? I was here with Miss Jackie?”
“Yes,” said Agnes dully.
“Is Mrs. Pittleman in?”
“Yes.”
Well, at least she hadn’t vanished.
“Could I see her?”
“I will have to ask, please wait there,” she said stiffly before walking rigidly off.
Ignoring her instruction, he stepped through and looked around.
Archer took a long whiff of the air to see if he could detect either Jackie’s or Ernestine’s perfumes. He couldn’t. He paced in the front hall, shooting glances here and there. Through the broad, tall windows facing the rear grounds of the house, he saw a man working under the hood of a pickup.
He opened a door, stepped out, and hurried over to him. The rain had now weakened to a drizzle.
“Hey there,” said Archer, walking over to him as the man looked up. “Just here to see Mrs. Pittleman.”
The man nodded. “Okay.”
“Bet you’re glad to see this rain. Good for the crops.”
“We’ll take it when we can get it.”
“Got a question.”
The man finished turning a wrench on a bolt, wiped his hands off on a rag, and said, “What’s that?”
“I was talking to another farmer hereabouts, and he said the last six years of drought just about wiped him out.”
“It did a lot of folks around here, mister, that’s no lie.”
Archer eyed the lush fields of crops that stretched as far as the eye could see. “So how did you all buck those odds?”
“We got a large spring-fed pond on the property. We pipe water in from there. And if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Pittleman had water trucked in for irrigation.”
“Must have cost a pretty penny.”
“Wasn’t cheap. But we grew our crops and outlasted a lot of others round here.”
“Probably didn’t make him all that popular with his fellow farmers.”
“You want the truth? I doubt the man cared. Just the way he was.”
“Mister?”
Archer turned to see Agnes at the door calling out to him.
“Mrs. Pittleman will see you now.”
Archer retraced his steps, and the maid led him slowly down the hall to a small sitting room that was cozily furnished and had fine views through a pair of large French doors opening to the rear of the house. Marjorie Pittleman was ensconced like an aged portly queen on a chaise lounge, wrapped in a blanket even though the room was not cool. He wondered if the woman had poor blood or some other such ailment. Or maybe she thought the blanket could keep all her troubles at bay.
“Mr. Archer?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Please sit down. Would you like a drink? Some lemonade or coffee?”
“Coffee would be fine, thanks.”
She pressed a little buzzer on the wall behind her.
Archer thought it must be swell to have only to push a button to get what you wanted.
A few moments later Amy opened the door. She graced Archer with a coquettish smile before saying, “Yes, Mrs. Pittleman?”
“A coffee for Mr. Archer.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away. Do you take anything with your coffee, Mr. Archer?”
“Just a cup,” he quipped.
Amy giggled, caught herself under the stern eye of Marjorie, and quickly retreated.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Archer?” she said impatiently.
“I was wondering if you’d seen Jackie lately?”
“Not since she was last here with you I haven’t.”
So that meant she hadn’t been by to pay the woman the money owed to her.
“Okay. I suppose you heard about her father?”
“I did indeed. First Hank and now Lucas Tuttle. I don’t know what Poca City is coming to. It’s like a crime wave one associates with the likes of Al Capone and his ilk.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you happen to know a woman by the name of Ernestine Crabtree?”
Marjorie creased her brow. “Ernestine, what again?”
“Crabtree.”
“I knew a Wanda Crabtree ages ago. But that was when I was a little girl, and that was nowhere near here.”
“By the way, what brought you to Poca City?”
“Hank did.” She let out a sigh. “I hated it when we first got here. There was nothing to this place. But I have to admit, Hank was right. He kept working at it, and people came. After the war things really picked up. He made a fortune. One that he will no longer enjoy, unfortunately.”
He decided to throw out a remark and see what her response would be. “Well, even though I know things are complicated between you two, you still have Jackie as a friend.”
She looked at him in a way that was both appraising and revealing, by degrees. “How well do you know Jackie Tuttle?”
“Not all that well, actually.”
The door opened, and Amy brought in Archer’s coffee and set it down on the table next to him.
“In a cup, just like you asked for, Mr. Archer,” she said with an impish grin.
“Now all my wishes have come true,” said Archer, grinning back.
“Thank you, Amy, that will be all,” said Marjorie firmly.
Amy gave her employer a little curtsy and beat a hasty retreat, shutting the door behind her, but not before giving Archer a flirty look.
Marjorie said, “Now, back to Jackie. She is very cunning; did you know that?”
Archer took a sip of his coffee. “I know she’s very smart.”
“Her mother died in a horrific accident. I knew Isabel fairly well.”
“What was she like?” Archer asked.
“She did not like living on a farm, for one. She and Lucas did not have a happy marriage. When Jackie came along, it didn’t help matters. It seemed to actually hurt them.”
“How so?”
“Isabel was fiercely protective of her marriage, and it seemed, at least sometimes, that she perceived Jackie as an interloper.”
“I thought they loved each other,” said Archer.
“Sometimes love can, well, warp someone.”
“Warp them how?”
“Now someone has killed Lucas Tuttle.”
“Hold on, what are you suggesting?” exclaimed Archer.
“I am suggesting that you don’t let your head be turned by every pretty face that happens by. Young men like yourself so often do.”
“Like Jackie’s, you mean?”
Marjorie said firmly, “Every pretty face. Now, why are you really here?”
“I can’t seem to find Jackie. And Ernestine Crabtree seems to have left town.”
“That is curious. Do you think it has anything to do with Lucas’s death?”
Archer thought for a moment about what Shaw had said when Jackie had viewed her father’s body.