“As you know, I’m employed at Kress’s.” She never lowered her standing by referring to the entire name: Kress’s Five and Dime. She waited for the sheriff to acknowledge her comment with a nod—even though they all knew she’d worked there since she sold toy soldiers to him as a boy—and then continued. “I believe the Marsh Girl is a suspect. Is that correct?”
“Who told you that?”
“Oh, lots of people are convinced, but Patti Love’s the main source.”
“I see.”
“Well, from Kress’s me and some other employees saw the Marsh Girl get on and off the bus on days that woulda put her out of town the night Chase died. I can testify to those dates and times.”
“That so?” Joe and Ed exchanged glances. “What are the dates and times?”
Miss Pansy sat straighter in her chair. “She left on the 2:30 P.M. bus on October 28 and returned at 1:16 on the thirtieth.”
“You said others saw her, too?”
“Yes. I can get a list if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary. We’ll come over to the Five and Dime if we want statements. Thank you, Miss Pansy.” The sheriff stood, so Miss Pansy and Ed did as well.
She moved toward the door. “Well, thank you for your time. As you said, you know where to find me.”
They said good-byes.
Joe sat back down. “Well, there it is. Confirms what Tate and Jumpin’ said. She was in Greenville that night, or leastwise, she got on a bus and went somewheres.”
The sheriff blew out a long breath. “Appears so. But I reckon if somebody can bus over to Greenville by day, they can bus back here at night. Do their business. Bus back to Greenville. Nobody the wiser.”
“I guess. Seems a bit of a stretch.”
“Go get the bus schedules. We’ll see if the times work out. If a return trip is possible in one night.”
Before Joe stepped out, Ed continued. “Could be she wanted to be seen out there in broad daylight getting on and off of buses. When you think about it, she had to do something out of the ordinary for an alibi. To claim that she’d been alone in her shack the night Chase died, as she usually is, would be no alibi at all. Zip. So she planned up something that lots of people would see her do. Making a great alibi right in front of all those folks on Main Street. Brilliant.”
“Well yeah, that’s a good point. Anyhow, we don’t have to play gumshoe anymore. We can set right here drinkin’ coffee and let the ladies of this town waltz in and outta here with all the goods. I’ll go get the bus schedules.”
Joe returned fifteen minutes later.
“Well, you’re right,” he said. “See here, it would be possible to bus from Greenville to Barkley Cove and then back again all in one night. Easy, really.”
“Yeah, plenty of time between the two buses to push somebody off the fire tower. I say we get a warrant.”
33.
In the winter of 1968, Kya sat at her kitchen table one morning, sweeping orange and pink watercolors across paper, creating the plump form of a mushroom. She had finished her book on seabirds and now worked on a guide to mushrooms. Already had plans for another on butterflies and moths.
Black-eyed peas, red onions, and salt ham boiled in the old dented pot on the woodstove, which she still preferred to the new range. Especially in winter. The tin roof sang under a light rain. Then, suddenly the sounds of a truck laboring through sand came down her lane. Rumbling louder than the roof. Panic rising, she stepped to the window and saw a red pickup maneuvering the muddy ruts.
Kya’s first thought was to run, but the truck was already pulling up to the porch. Hunched down below the windowsill, she watched a man in a gray-green military uniform step out. He just stood there, truck door ajar, looking through the woods, down the path toward the lagoon. Then, closing the door softly, he jogged through the rain to the porch door and knocked.
She cussed. He was probably lost, would ask directions and go on, but she didn’t want to deal with him. She could hide here in the kitchen, hope he went away. But she heard him call. “Yo! Anybody home? Hello!”
Annoyed yet curious, she walked through the newly furnished sitting room to the porch. The stranger, tall with dark hair, stood on the front step holding the screen door open, five feet from her. His uniform seemed stiff enough to stand on its own, as if it were holding him together. The breast of his jacket was covered with colorful rectangular medals. But most eye-catching of all was a jagged red scar that cut his face in half from his left ear to the top of his lips. Kya gasped.
