Outlaw Mountain

“Hispanic boys,” Joa

Jessie blew her nose. “Well,” she a

“When did you last see your sister, Mrs. Monroe?”

“Miss,” Jessie corrected. “I’m the old maid of the family. And the last time I saw Alice was about three months ago, when she came down to Douglas to show off that new beaus of hers. Seemed like a nice enough chap to me. And I could see he thought the world of her, too, opening and closing doors for her, helping her in and out of chairs. A regular gentleman. You don’t see too many of those around anymore. Nope, they’re scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Farley Adams?” Joa

“Alice’s beau? That’s right. Farley Adams was his name. Is his name. I should imagine he’ll be devastated, losing her so soon after like this. It’s a tragedy-a terrible tragedy, and, as I said before, I’m sure those selfish kids of hers are behind it one way or the other.”

“You said, ‘losing her so soon after,’ Miss Monroe,” Joa

Jessie Monroe heaved a sigh and then fumbled a black satchel-sized purse out of the basket on her walker. Once she snapped it open, she spent several long minutes sorting through the contents. At last she withdrew a stiff piece of paper-a postcard-which she handed over to Joa

The picture side of the card showed a smiling couple posing inside an enormous heart-shaped wreath of flowers. The woman was holding a small bouquet. The man wore a suit complete with a bouto

“Didn’t they make a handsome couple, though?” Jessie Monroe was saying. “Alice was always the prettiest little thing. And she managed to keep her looks, even if she didn’t keep her own teeth.”

Holding the picture, Joa

Studying the picture closely, Joa

Joa

“May I make a copy of this, Miss Monroe?”

“Of their wedding picture? I suppose so. I don’t see what it could hurt. But I want it back. As a remembrance, you see.”

“It’ll only take a minute or so. Let me call my secretary.”

Kristin was summoned once more. She took the picture down the hall and returned a few minutes later with the original and with color copies of both sides of the postcard. Joa

“Remarkable,” she said. “I remember all those years with Ditto machines. Do you remember those? The purple ink?”

Joa

“Oh, well, I suppose not. There were probably mimeograph machines by the time you came along, or maybe even Xerox. But I used Dittos for years when I was teaching school. The idea that you cart just make a copy of something like this is astonishing. Why, you almost can’t tell the difference between the original and the copy! I guess that’s progress for you. I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see it.”

As she spoke, Jessie carefully filed the postcard back away in her purse. “Have you spoken to Farley?” she asked. “I’ve tried calling his number out at the mobile, but there wasn’t any answer, and he doesn’t seem to have a machine. Alice did, but not Farley. I wanted to give him my condolences and find out about arrangements and all. I do hope he’ll have something to say about than-about the funeral, I mean. By rights, he should, since he’s her husband and all. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Susan and Clete didn’t cut him out of it. That’s the way they are, you see. Both of them selfish as the day is long. Both of them wanting to run the whole show. You have no idea how their constant bickering bothered Alice. There were times when she considered disowning them both.”

Cramming her purse back into the basket on the walker, Jessie Monroe struggled to her feet. “I’d best be going,” she said.

“Will you be needing a ride back to Douglas?” Joa

Jessie waved the offer aside. “Oh, no,” she said. “I have my own wheels. Not really mine, of course. I turned in my license when I hit eighty-five. Seemed like the responsible thing to do because my reflexes were getting so bad. But Helen Dominguez, one of the attendants from the home, drove me here. I’m paying her, of course. That’s only fair. But she can’t get home too late. She’s a young person, you see, and still has children that will be coming home from school soon. I’ve always felt that mothers should be at home when their children get out of school, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Joa

By force of will she managed to keep herself from casting a guilt-ridden glance at her own watch. Je

Jessie started toward the door. “By the way,” she added, “when you read Ali’s book-Alice’s book-don’t expect it to be great literature. It was done by one of those self-publishing outfits. Vanity presses, I think they call them. I don’t know how much she paid for it-probably way too much-but the company who did it certainly didn’t squander any of what she paid on editing. My sister was a great gal, but she never was much of a writer, so the book’s a bit rough in spots. You’ll get the picture, though. Or your detectives will.”

“Thank you,” Joa