“Don’t got a penny.”
I’d explain, but I’m worn down right to my tread. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your mother.”
“Me, too.” I wish I could’ve read that note she left for me and Woody. Vera said it was beautiful. I’ll look harder for it as soon as things settle a little. That note must be the one Sam keeps asking me to keep an eye out for.
“What if the sheriff begins thinking that Sam had something to do with your mama’s… ummm,” E. J. asks as we make the turn into the alley that runs behind the shops on Main Street.
He means her death. It surprises me more than snow in August that he figured that out. I might underestimate our sidekick sometimes. “He’d need proof of wrongdoing.”
E. J. follows me as I turn into the narrow alley. “Like what?”
I think back on some of the cases that I observed in my father’s courtroom and on Mannix. “Like maybe something that belonged to Mama being found over at the Triple S. Something that would point to foul play.” That gives me the quivers. “But that’s not gonna happen. Mama was Sam’s best friend.”
I come to a halt and tell E. J., “Here we go.”
The bottom half of the moon is aglow with the nicest smile, but it’s not shooting off enough light to help us make our way through the junk that’s scattered in the backyard of What Goes Around Comes Around. I got to switch on my flashlight. A mangy cat is giving himself a bath on a cushionless divan. A bunch of chairs are stacked on top of one another and leaning against the pile are rusted signs that folks find on the highway and bring to the owner of the shop, Artesia Johnson, who is a soft touch. By the wink she gives me at Mass, I know she leaves the back window of the shop unlocked so I can come look for Mama’s stuff from time to time. A real generous heart beats beneath Miss Artesia’s blubber. (She’s heavy set. She’ll tell you it’s her glands, but all you got to do is share a blanket with her at the church picnic and you’ll know right off it’s her mouth.)
“Cup ’em,” I tell E. J. I shake off my sneakers and place my foot in his hands.
With one good boost, I’m halfway through the back window and I wriggle the rest of the way through.
The shop is much spookier at night than during the day, when it already gives me the willies. It’s the mannequins. They don’t have faces. One of them’s wearing a nice red, white, and blue jacket. Besides a scarf of Mama’s, I think I’ll get that jacket for Woody. She’s going to be so excited when I inform her that we got a big new relative. She’ll probably make me sing some stupid show tune to celebrate. Or a patriotic ditty, now that we got our very own uncle Sam!
There are tables upon card tables of discards set willy-nilly around the shop. Egg beaters are mixed in with mohair sweaters. Beaded purses are lying on top of typewriters with missing keys. Miss Artesia’s got the antique jewelry and more valuable items set out in a display case. There’s one of Clive Minnow’s Confederate buttons that he found with his metal-detecting device. I missed his funeral when Woody and I spent all that time up in the fort grieving Mama. I’m going to borrow this button, too. Miss Artesia won’t miss something this small. Once everything calms down around here, I’ll take it to the cemetery and push it into Clive’s mound. He’d like that.
A selection of scarves is hanging on a coat hanger right above the jewelry case. The third one from the left, that’s one of Mama’s. I never took them home all at one time because having them sitting in a pile in the fort felt too final. By leaving them here, I could pretend, the same way I was doing about everything else, that someday Mama and Woody and me would come by to pick up the rest. I slide the scarf off the hanger and hold it up to my nose, but the scent of her is long gone. The pink chiffon smells like spaghetti and meatballs now. Miss Artesia’s favorite. Woody won’t care. She’ll just be glad to have something of Mama’s. And it is Italian.
“Shen!” E. J. calls through the back window. His mouth sounds full and like he’s saying, “Then!” He must’ve already started eating
It’s probably Miss Johnson remembering she forgot to put out the goose lamp above the cash register when she closed up. That’s all right. I don’t care if she finds me rifling through her wares. It will give me the opportunity to thank her for her patience and understanding. There’s a jingling, then a rattle at the back door. Like she is having a hard time fitting the key into the lock, but then the door opens and closes hard.
“Hey, Miss Artesia,” I call in that direction, so I don’t startle her. “Don’t be scared. It’s me, Shenny Carmody. I’m just picking up something for my sister. I’ll pay you back.”
But it’s not Artesia Johnson coming out of the dark back hallway looking all forgiving. Somebody else is standing in the glow of my flashlight.
It’s Curry Weaver.
Chapter Twenty-six
Curry’s still got on the starched blue shirt and tan slacks that he had on over at the carnival grounds when I saw him discussing something so heated with Sam and the sheriff. He looks polished for a man who just got out of the Colony. Usually those hoboes come back from the hospital looking like “The Wreck of the Hesperus.” Curry’s dark hair is parted on the left and combed with shiny grease. Whiskers have sprouted up on his jaw and small upper lip.
I say, “Hey!” like I’ve just run across him while the two of us were doing our daily errands. “Don’t you look nice.”
“Hello, Shenny,” Curry says. E. J. steps out from behind him. He’s got egg salad stuck to the corners of his mouth.
My brain, which went into reverse upon seeing him, is just starting to rev back up. First he’s at Buffalo Park, then over at Beezy’s, and now here. What the heck? Oh, I get it. He must’ve saw E. J. and I leaving Beezy’s. I bet he followed us over here to chastise us for spying on him and her. “Look,” I say, “we’re really sorry we tried to do a sneak up. We didn’t mean to intrude on your visit with Beezy. Tomorrow I’ll tell her how-”
“That’s not why I’m here,” he says.
“Okay.” I look over at E. J. and he seems as flummoxed as me. “Then why are you here?”
“I thought you two might like to know that the sheriff has finished questioning Sam concerning your mother’s disappearance,” he says. I take a step closer to him. E. J. looks smaller than he usually does next to Curry, who must’ve found his new outfit in the Extra Large section of wherever he shops, which is odd. I don’t think that hoboes usually do. Shop, that is. Looks to me like they get most of their stuff from garbage pails.
“Well, I appreciate you coming by to tell us about Sam, but I don’t understand,” I say. “What do you care about him or my mama or… not to be rude or nothin’, but what does anything that’s goin’ on in our town have to do with you? You’re just passing through. You’re… well… a hobo.” But the second those words are out of my mouth, I remember how Curry never slurs his words and his teeth aren’t rotting like the other men at the camp. “Aren’t you?”
“Not exactly.” Curry reaches into his back pants pocket and takes out a black leather wallet. He flips it open and flashes a badge. It has DECATUR stamped in raised-up silver.
Oh, Lord. He’s not a writer. He’s not a soldier that has gone AWOL. He’s not a man of the rails. His name isn’t even Curry Weaver. It’s Anthony Joseph Sardino. And he’s a cop. A detective. Just like his brother-Johnny, Sam’s dead partner.
Curry says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you two sooner, but I’m working undercover.”