of federal employee Norman Colton, were connected. So it was within his jurisdiction to make inquiries into the death of Pete Nare.
He stood on the board sidewalk across the street from the empty and somewhat forlorn-looking hardware store and lighted a cheroot while he took a look up and down the block.
There was a saloon on the corner, normally the most likely source of information about any happening in the neighborhood. But Longarm had been in the place the previous day and found only silent hostility there.
He smiled when he saw, tucked between a hatmaker and a haberdashery, a small storefront that announced itself as an ice cream parlor and confectioner. Perfect. He stayed where he was until he finished his smoke, then ambled down the block toward the ice cream parlor. A mid-afternoon sweet sounded just about right.
Longarm was not sure if he should feel like a cockerel in a roost full of hens. Or a turd floating in the punch bowl.
For sure he was the only male in sight. Unless you counted those visible through the glass front as commerce passed by the tiny island of feminism.
The proprietress and staff were exclusively female and so was the afternoon clientele. Save, that is, for one tall, lean United States deputy marshal.
The woman who seemed to be in charge of the parlor was perhaps fifty or so, with hair like steel, eyes like ball bearings and a build that suggested she could wrestle steers and not give much away in terms of raw power. She had two waitresses, both young women in their late teens or early twenties, each wearing identical uniforms of white shirt, gray skirt and an overblouse (or whatever the glorified aprons might be called) made of pink fabric with huge ruffles at the arm holes and embroidered lettering on the left breast to indicate the girl’s name—Barbara being a short girl with a round face, dimples, and brown hair tied back in a severe bun and Clarice being tall, slim, and almost pretty except for a large wart on the side of her nose that gave her the unfortunate appearance of a Halloween witch illustration come to life.
The patrons—the little store was nearly full—were ladies in various degrees of finery taking time out from the taxing chores of shopping, pausing here for refreshment so they would be able once more to contribute to the economy of their town.
Married women all, he was sure. He could tell by the piles of bundles, sacks, and parcels spread out on the floor near their feet. Women would spend so freely only if someone else was providing the wherewithal. Or so Longarm believed. He supposed he could be in error about that since it was only one man’s lifetime of experience that led him to the assumption.
Whatever, they were a handsome sight, this gathering of Addington’s grandest dams at the—well, sort of— watering hole.
“Yes, sir?” The voice was tentative, unsure and a trifle too high-pitched. It was Clarice who’d lost out and had to wait on the male in their midst.
“You have ice cream, the sign says?”
“Yes, sir. Seven flavors.” She pointed toward a sign high on the back wall listing the assortment.
“Vanilla will be fine,” he said.
“Yes, sir. We have some nice fresh dewberries. Would you like some on top?”
“Please.”
She gave him a smile that seemed genuine, dipped into a minimal curtsy and swept away with the hem of her skirt flying up a bit to reveal an ankle that was not half bad. If it weren’t for that wart …
Longarm removed his Stetson and looked around, but there was no provision made for gentlemen’s hats here. He settled for putting it on the seat of the other chair at his tiny table.
The ladies at the other tables had virtually stopped talking when he entered, but by now they were beginning to relax in his presence—if not actually forgetting about him then at least no longer finding it unnatural for him to be there among them in what he now strongly believed was normally an exclusive preserve of the fair gender.
Clarice came back with a fluted dish of ice cream so rich with cream and sugar that it was more yellow than white, what he could see of it beneath a thick overlay of those dark, plump berries so like blackberries except for their lighter, sweeter, more delicate flavor. Longarm hadn’t had dewberries in … he tried to think back and failed to come up with so much as an approximation … years. A good many years.
“Would you like coffee with that, sir? Or some cookies? We have some nice sugar cookies.”
“Sugar cookies would be good. And tea, not coffee.” He managed to keep from snickering into his sleeve. Sugar cookies and tea. Shee-it. Still, it would smooth out any lingering rough edges. After that, the ladies, any who bothered to pay attention, would think of him as just another of the girls and never mind appearances.
Yes, sirree bob. Ice cream, cookies and a spot of tea. Just what every he-man needs for his afternoon break.
Longarm sat back with his expression blank. And his ears wide, wide open.
Chapter 20
“Nope. Pete Nare didn’t have no family. Nobody you can talk to, else I wouldn’t be saying anything in answer to your question, by God, and that’s a fact. Word is that your name is Mud around here. But I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with telling you there’s nothing for you to look into when it comes to Pete. He was married once, but that was, oh, a good many years back. Married Normajean Banfrey from down-river. Her father … he’s dead too now … farmed some, ran a catfish trotline, got by if you know what I mean. Anyhow, Pete married Normajean, but she up and died. In childbirth. That was a long time back. Ever since then Pete pretty much kept to himself. Stopped by here every Saturday night after closing and had him two shots, never any more, then went over to Fat Nell’s to get his ashes hauled. Regular as an eight-day clock, Pete was. But no family. You’re wasting your time.”
“I thank you anyhow, neighbor,” Longarm said, knocking back a straight shot of rye whiskey—Pennsylvania distilled, which made it second-best but not actually bad—to help cut the cloying sweetness of all the ice cream and pastries and shit he’d just waded through over at the ice cream parlor. Or make that ladies’ social. Either one seemed to fit well enough.
“Another?” the bartender asked.
