“Oh, gosh, mister. They wouldn’t give me my medicine if I was in jail, would they?”
“No, I don’t think they’d allow Delphium’s Elixir in the jail, BethAnne.”
The overlarge smile flickered and was replaced by one that was not quite so big but that at least looked sincere this time. “Can we go get that medicine now, please?”
“Sure, BethAnne. Show me where, and I’ll buy it for YOU.”
Chapter 32
Longarm was so tired he felt like he might fall over sideways at any moment. And if he did he would likely start to snore and not wake up until tomorrow morning. What with the visit to Deborah last night, and then going out to see Billy with his very own eyes, he hadn’t gotten a wink. And he was damn sure starting to feel it. He had to get some sleep soon or his eyeballs might drop clean out of his face. They already felt gritty and burned like a pair of coals in a dying fire.
But, dammit, he wasn’t done there in Aurora yet. He still knew too damn little about Carl Beamon and what the man might have seen that day the bomb went off.
BethAnne Mobley had been a help. More so than she realized. But surely there was more to it than BethAnne’s confused and muddied mind was able to recall.
Then Longarm had a stroke of genius—if he did say so his own damn self—and headed for the boardinghouse where Beamon had lived.
“Ma’am,” Longarm said to the tall, rather hefty woman who opened the door to his knock. “Could I put up here for a single night?”
“My rate is four dollars for the week.”
“I only need the one night.”
“I don’t run a hotel here, young man. I offer rooms by the week or by the month. No exceptions.”
“I could pay a dollar and a half for the one night, ma’am. You do include board, don’t you?”
She sniffed. “You could put up at the hotel over on Main for half that.”
“But they wouldn’t have meals as good as what I’ve heard you serve.”
“Who told you that, young man?”
It had been a hell of a long time since he’d been called that.
“Fella name of … let me think … Beamon? Something like that.”
“He boarded with me, that’s true enough. Are you a friend of his?”
“An acquaintance is all,” Longarm said, “but he spoke highly of you. That’s why I thought of you when I discovered I have to stay over tonight. Your people haven’t finished with supper yet, have they?”
“A dollar and a half, you say. Cash money?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I would have to wash the sheets after only one night’s use, you know.”
“I could go as high as a dollar seventy-five. My boss won’t reimburse me for anything more than that.”
“You’re a businessman, Mister …?”
“Long,” Longarm told her with a smile. “Custis Long.”
“My name is Willets. Missus Willets, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t have luggage, Mr. Long?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t expect to be staying over.”
“Yes, well, you seem a nice man, Mr. Long. I am willing to make an exception for you. Come inside. Supper will be served in twenty minutes. There is a pump and wash basin on the back porch, clean towels in the pantry. One towel and one change of linen each week. Not that that applies to you, of course.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his Stetson and went inside to join the men who had been Carl Beamon’s friends. Or so, at least, he hoped.
Chapter 33
It was no wonder Mrs. Willets was so impressed by a compliment to her food that she agreed to make an exception to her rules for the man who gave it. Longarm was fairly sure the poor soul had never before received any compliments on her cooking. If only because none were warranted.
The food was, to be charitable, lousy. Bland and cheap, without even the saving grace of being greasy. And all of it pretty much the same pale gray color, boiled meat included. A man had to be mighty hungry in order to force the shit into his face. Fortunately Longarm was plenty hungry. He finished his first plateful and, to Mrs. Willets’s obvious approval, asked for seconds. None of the other fellows at the table competed with him in a scramble for refills.
“Save room for dessert, Mr. Long,” Mrs. Willets helpfully advised.
“Oh, I’ll surely do that, ma’am, thank you.” He smiled at the old battle-ax and had some more lumpy mashed potatoes swimming in an off-white liquid that was either gravy or library paste, he wasn’t quite sure which.
Dessert turned out to be bread pudding lightly laced with small black lumps that he almost desperately hoped were raisins. They must have been, he concluded, because the other boarders, who should already be wise to the potential dangers of Mrs. Willets’s table, all dug into the bread pudding without restraint, although several of them
