where my mind could wander.
In the morning, Mother drove me to the depot, but she did not go in. She gave me a searching look as she stopped the Packard, then said she had not slept well the night before, worrying about whether it was a good idea for me to go. “Sometimes it’s best not to know too much about a thing,” she said.
“What thing?”
She gave a little laugh. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Do you want to go?” I asked suddenly. “We can go back and pack your things and take a later train.”
Mother was not surprised at the invitation, which made me wonder if she already had considered accompanying me. “No. The Bondurants aren’t my business anymore. They’re yours. Besides, Henry’s feelings might be hurt. He wouldn’t approve of my going off in search of Wink’s family.” Henry approved ofeverything Mother did, but if she wanted to use him as an excuse, that was all right. Going through Father’s things had loosed too many old memories. I understood that.
Instead of purchasing a Pullman ticket, I impulsively treated myself to a private compartment. Since the divorce, I hadn’t sleep well, and I was sure that the nocturnal sounds of strangers—the snoring, the whispers behind bed curtains, the hushed footsteps up and down the aisles, the murmured talk between porter and passengers—would keep me awake. Besides, talking to other passengers did not appeal to me. They would ask my destination, the reason for the trip, then offer unwanted sympathy for the death of my relative or try to satisfy their curiosity when they learned she was unknown to me. If they found out she had been murdered, they would be relentless in their prying—just as even our closest friends had tried to pry from me the reason that David and I had ended our marriage. On the train, I put off meals until a late hour, when the dining car was all but empty and I could have a table to myself. When a gentleman sitting across from me in the diner held up a flask and asked, “Girlie, are you a drinking woman?” I sent him a withering glance and fled to my compartment, got out a deck of cards, and played solitaire.
Mr. Satterfield’s building was just a block from the Eola. The elevator in his lobby was empty, the mesh cage closed, and no sign of an operator, so I climbed the stairs to the second floor.
“You are mighty prompt,” Mr. Satterfield said as I walked into his office just as his wall clock with the big pendulum finished its fourth strike. He glanced at the clock, then took out anancient timepiece and studied it. He looked at the clock again. Pickett Long had said a woman in Natchez was on time if she were only an hour late. Perhaps that applied to all appointments, business as well as social.
At any rate, it was clear that Mr. Satterfield had not expected me to be there at four o’clock on the dot, because he was sitting at his desk in shirtsleeves and suspenders, his necktie loosened, shelling peanuts onto a newspaper. “Would you have one?” he asked. When I declined, he shoved the peanuts to one side, then wadded up the newspaper and shells and dropped the whole business into a wastepaper basket. He stood up and put on his jacket, saying, “There now” as he sat down again and rearranged the piles of paper on top of his desk. When he had cleared a space in the center, he looked around until he found a large brown envelope, then emptied it onto the small ink blotter on his desk and began sorting through the contents. The ceiling fan ruffled the papers as he spread them out, and he picked up a revolver and placed it on top of half a dozen newspaper clippings about to blow onto the floor. Henry had showed me how to use a gun and taught me something about firearms, but this was an ancient piece, a curiosity that probably went back to the Civil War.
As Mr. Satterfield busied himself with what was in the envelope, I glanced around the room, which was on the second floor of an old stone building on Main Street.
In the morning, Mother drove me to the depot, but she did not go in. She gave me a searching look as she stopped the Packard, then said she had not slept well the night before, worrying about whether it was a good idea for me to go. “Sometimes it’s best not to know too much about a thing,” she said.
“What thing?”
She gave a little laugh. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Do you want to go?” I asked suddenly. “We can go back and pack your things and take a later train.”
Mother was not surprised at the invitation, which made me wonder if she already had considered accompanying me. “No. The Bondurants aren’t my business anymore. They’re yours. Besides, Henry’s feelings might be hurt. He wouldn’t approve of my going off in search of Wink’s family.” Henry approved ofeverything Mother did, but if she wanted to use him as an excuse, that was all right. Going through Father’s things had loosed too many old memories. I understood that.
Instead of purchasing a Pullman ticket, I impulsively treated myself to a private compartment. Since the divorce, I hadn’t sleep well, and I was sure that the nocturnal sounds of strangers—the snoring, the whispers behind bed curtains, the hushed footsteps up and down the aisles, the murmured talk between porter and passengers—would keep me awake. Besides, talking to other passengers did not appeal to me. They would ask my destination, the reason for the trip, then offer unwanted sympathy for the death of my relative or try to satisfy their curiosity when they learned she was unknown to me. If they found out she had been murdered, they would be relentless in their prying—just as even our closest friends had tried to pry from me the reason that David and I had ended our marriage. On the train, I put off meals until a late hour, when the dining car was all but empty and I could have a table to myself. When a gentleman sitting across from me in the diner held up a flask and asked, “Girlie, are you a drinking woman?” I sent him a withering glance and fled to my compartment, got out a deck of cards, and played solitaire.
Mr. Satterfield’s building was just a block from the Eola. The elevator in his lobby was empty, the mesh cage closed, and no sign of an operator, so I climbed the stairs to the second floor.
“You are mighty prompt,” Mr. Satterfield said as I walked into his office just as his wall clock with the big pendulum finished its fourth strike. He glanced at the clock, then took out anancient timepiece and studied it. He looked at the clock again. Pickett Long had said a woman in Natchez was on time if she were only an hour late. Perhaps that applied to all appointments, business as well as social.
At any rate, it was clear that Mr. Satterfield had not expected me to be there at four o’clock on the dot, because he was sitting at his desk in shirtsleeves and suspenders, his necktie loosened, shelling peanuts onto a newspaper. “Would you have one?” he asked. When I declined, he shoved the peanuts to one side, then wadded up the newspaper and shells and dropped the whole business into a wastepaper basket. He stood up and put on his jacket, saying, “There now” as he sat down again and rearranged the piles of paper on top of his desk. When he had cleared a space in the center, he looked around until he found a large brown envelope, then emptied it onto the small ink blotter on his desk and began sorting through the contents. The ceiling fan ruffled the papers as he spread them out, and he picked up a revolver and placed it on top of half a dozen newspaper clippings about to blow onto the floor. Henry had showed me how to use a gun and taught me something about firearms, but this was an ancient piece, a curiosity that probably went back to the Civil War.
As Mr. Satterfield busied himself with what was in the envelope, I glanced around the room, which was on the second floor of an old stone building on Main Street.
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