Landry said, “Bernie fears that Mr. Hutton is an agent of some sort, who could put a crimp in our, uh, profitable endeavor.”
“I asked, he denied it, I believe him.”
Bernie said, “I think you’re being naïve, Bill.”
“And I think you’re needlessly fixated on Thatcher Hutton when you should be concerned about Wally Johnson’s murder and the hell that’s sure to rain down because of it.” He was fuming. “You talk about a crimp, Mr. Landry? I’m talking about castration if Hiram finds out that you two killed him.”
Bernie barked a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t go within a mile of that freak.”
“Then who’d you send?”
“Nobody.”
“Hennessy?”
“Neither Chester nor I had anything to do with it.”
Landry raised his hands. “No blood on these, Sheriff Amos.”
“No, but I would swear your nails are buffed,” Bernie said. The two of them laughed.
The sheriff, however, didn’t find either of them funny. To humor him, Bernie clasped his hands on his desk and spoke with exaggerated seriousness. “Though Hiram would never admit it, he’s probably secretly glad that Wally is no longer an embarrassment to the family as a testament to their inbreeding. What motive would I have had for killing him and, in doing so, putting my manhood at risk?”
“Because the Johnson clan is making inroads into markets you covet.”
Bernie tried to keep his expression schooled. “True. I’ll admit that they’ve got a relay route up to the oil towns that I wish I had. But it would have been petty to kill Wally over it.”
“The more mischief you make for them, Bernie, the more ground you gain. Don’t insult my intelligence, or their vengeful mentality.”
“I didn’t order Wally’s execution.”
“I haven’t heard you sound that sincere since your swearing-in speech.” The sheriff snuffled a laugh as he stood up and put his hat back on. “But it’s not me you’ve got to convince. It’s the bloodthirsty Johnson tribe.”
Supremely annoyed by Bill’s amusement as his expense, Bernie said, “Wait a minute, Sheriff Amos. You don’t want to forget this.”
He opened the bottom drawer on the left side of his desk and took out an unopened bottle of Jim Beam and a letter envelope bulging with cash. He pushed both to the edge of his desk. For ponderous moments, the sheriff stared at both. Then he did something he had never done before.
He took only one of them and left the other.
Twenty
Laurel hadn’t believed she would live through the night after Pearl’s burial. She had, but the days and nights that followed were just as difficult to endure. She’d sequestered herself in her bedroom, holding Pearl’s baby clothes against her face, inhaling the familiar scent, using the soft garments to muffle her continual keening.
She’d bound her breasts. Eventually her milk had stopped coming.
Irv had checked on her periodically, delivering plates of food she hadn’t wanted. Those trips up and down the stairs must have pained his hip, but he didn’t complain, and, although he was visibly concerned about her well-being, he didn’t admonish her to hurry along her grieving process.
One morning, she had opened her eyes and realized that tears were no longer blurring the sunlight coming through her window. The pain in her heart wasn’t as sharp. When she went down and joined Irv in the kitchen for breakfast, his smile was worth the effort it had taken her to bathe and dress.
Later that morning, she’d sealed all Pearl’s clothes and baby things inside a box and slid it beneath her bed. That dreaded rite behind her, she’d pushed through the remainder of that day, fearing that if she didn’t, she would remain inert and languish until she died.
Damned if she would give Death that satisfaction.
She’d attacked the leased house as though it were an embodiment of all her recent misfortunes. She dipped into her nest egg money to buy items that would spruce it up, then had thrown herself into every chore—scrubbing, painting, repairing—in order to keep her hands busy and her mind from reverting to debilitating heartache.
She’d made the bedroom she had expected to share with Pearl into a retreat for herself, complete with a cozy sitting area. Once Irv had built the wall to enclose the keeping room, she’d made it as comfortable for him as he would let her, although he’d told her repeatedly not to fuss.
He’d brought his barrel seat from the shack. It was an eyesore, but she’d said nothing when he’d rolled it into his room and turned it right side up in a spot of his choosing. He’d declined her offer to make him a new cushion for it.