Wild Pitch (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 1) by A. B. Guthrie

Author:A. B. Guthrie [Guthrie, A. B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497652842
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2015-05-26T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The car I was to drive was a two-year-old Chev, assigned to the sheriff’s office and used mostly by Halvor, since Jimmy didn’t wheel around much and Charleston preferred his own Special. It could almost have passed for new. Charleston saw to that.

Before I left to pick up my passengers, the sheriff gave me a letter in witness of my responsibility and official mission and with it thirty dollars for expenses. Also, he handed over an envelope for Mrs. Conner. It contained, he told me, the commitment papers and a statement identifying the bearer.

Two suitcases and an overnight bag were waiting on Mrs. Jenkins’ front porch. I stowed them in the trunk before knocking. Mrs. Conner, looking efficient though bulgy, answered the door. She carried a piece of hand luggage big enough for all Woolworth’s cosmetics. Her other hand pulled Mrs. Jenkins along. Though her stockings didn’t match, Mrs. Jenkins was dressed for the ball, the result of joint effort, no doubt.

Mrs. Conner locked the door, saying as she did so, “We’ll have a nice ride, Mrs. Jenkins, and people will be so glad to see us. A beautiful day for an outing.”

Mrs. Jenkins hung back. “I must be back before sundown. Where’s my purse? Did you lock the door?”

“Yes. Yes. Everything’s attended to. Here’s your purse in my bag, if you’d rather carry it. Come on, now.” Mrs. Conner managed to urge Mrs. Jenkins into the back seat, then climbed in herself.

It was a nice day all right. The sun, now perhaps two hours awake, shone gently—which was no promise it wouldn’t blister us later—and the southwest wind was no more than a breath. What clouds there were were fluffy.

East of town, once we were out of the valley and up on the bench, the treeless land flowed away, so level and long it might have been planed by John Bunyan’s carpenter. It was checkered by wheat fields that lapped and ebbed at the sides of the road, answering to the faint breeze. In a week or so would come harvest time. Here and there, rarely, was a house or a shack, forsaken now because wheat ranchers all lived in town so’s to enjoy daily mail and flush toilets. Scattered cattle grazed or dozed in fields not touched by plows. The wild sweet clover that crowded the pavement gave off a scent. A dust devil played in a patch of summer fallow. I tooled the car toward the end of this flat world, toward the end of the world.

The two in back were silent, or spoke too low for my ears, until Mrs. Jenkins began to sing in her old, believing voice

Still He comforts mourning hearts,

Life and joy and peace imparts.

She was to sing that couplet, off and on, until we pulled up for the night. When pauses came, Mrs. Conner would say, “Yes, dear. That’s sweet, dear.”

After a couple of hours the sun went into business. It invaded the car like a torch, piercing the metal top,

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