One Good Deed(18)
“Mr. Archer,” she said, putting out a hand. He rose and shook it. “This way, sir.”
As they walked along Archer said, “So what is it that you do here, ma’am?”
“I assist Mr. Tuttle as his secretary.”
“He seems like a real sweetheart, when he’s not pointing his shotgun at my privates.”
“It pays well, and it requires little interaction with anything other than my typewriter.”
“You know Jackie Tuttle?”
“I knew her when she was here, yes.”
“I met her in town last night. She was with Hank Pittleman.”
The eyes behind the lenses swelled a bit. “I expect she was.”
“Mr. Tuttle wants her back. He doesn’t want her with Pittleman.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“I bet you are. So, if you don’t mind my asking, why’d she leave home?”
“I do mind you asking.”
“Well, to explain things, Mr. Tuttle wants me to convince Jackie to leave Pittleman. If I knew a little more about the situation, I might be able to accomplish that.”
Desiree stopped and looked up at him. “And bring her back here?”
“I never said I would bring her back here. I just said I’d try to get her to leave Pittleman. I mean, he’s married and all anyway. Doesn’t seem right.”
“How refreshingly moral of you, Mr. Archer.”
“You can drop the mister. I’m just Archer.”
“All right, Archer. I appreciate your honesty and frankness. The fact is Jackie never told me why she was leaving. Though it was around the time her mother died.”
“What was her name?”
“Isabel.”
“Pretty name. What’s that, Spanish?”
“She was from Brazil. Mr. Tuttle traveled there for business when he was younger, and they met. They married and came back here, where they had Miss Tuttle.”
“Was Isabel sick? Is that how she died?”
“No. She died in an accident.”
“Sorry to hear that. What kinda accident?”
“It was just a horrible, horrible accident. I’ll leave it at that.”
“Were she and Jackie close?”
“Isabel adored her daughter and that adoration was returned.”
“Maybe that’s why she left. Because she was so heartbroken about her mother.”
Desiree looked at him funny and said, “I’m sure that was part of it.” She hesitated. “Would you like to see a picture of Isabel?”
“Sure.”
Desiree led him down another hall and opened a door into a large and comfortable sitting room with several oval windows that looked out onto the stark fields behind the house.
Archer took it all in. Big, solid furniture, colorful rug on the Spanish tile floor, paintings on the wall depicting countryside and wildlife, and a stone fireplace that rose to the ceiling. A mantel of petrified wood fronted the stone with a framed photo on it.
“Mr. Tuttle sure has nice things,” he noted.
“He’s had his ups and downs, but now things are looking up.”
Archer didn’t think the woman sounded too happy about that.
“This is Isabel.”
Desiree had lifted the framed photo off the mantel and held it out to him.
Archer gripped the frame and stared at the woman in the snapshot. She was dark-haired and olive-skinned, and Archer could not remember seeing a lovelier countenance. It wasn’t just the beautiful features, it was the spark of life in the eyes that made his own pair seem dull and unresponsive by comparison.
“So she died about a year ago? That’s when Mr. Tuttle said Jackie had left home.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She took the photo from him and replaced it on the mantel.
Twirling his hat, Archer said, “Why’d you really bring me in here and show me that picture?”
“I just thought you’d like to see Miss Tuttle’s mother.”
“Okay,” said Archer. “And I’m Harry Truman.”
She looked him up and down. “I thought Truman was older and shorter.”
He fiddled with his hat some more. “What do you think about Mr. Tuttle wanting her to come back home?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“And if you did?”
“She’s a grown woman. She should be able to make her own decisions.”
“What sort of accident again?”
“I told you that—”
“I know Jackie and I like her, and I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t really know all the details. Just that it was very tragic. Now, I have some dictation to type up. I’ll show you out.”
“I can find my own way, thanks. You should probably get to your typewriter. Don’t want Tuttle pointing his shotgun at you because you got behind in your typing. It’s a little unsettling.”
Archer left the tidy house, put on his hat, and wondered what the hell all that had been about.
Chapter 7
A HITCHED RIDE BACK with a mother and her bucktoothed, runny-nosed son in a dented Studebaker, with no wheel caps and a rattling sound that signaled the engine was close to throwing a rod, brought Archer to Poca City before the dinner hour. He used the down-the-hall shower to clean off the dust and put his only clothes back on. He set off now to do something about that wardrobe predicament. His long legs took him down the street to a haberdashery about three blocks from his hotel that he had passed on his earlier ramblings.