The mural showed only white people: a happy history of a town devoid of the people who built it. There was a man strolling in a conspicuously white suit with a toothpick in his mouth, a distant plantation with a colonial mansion, and girls in pinafore dresses frolicking in the sun. An ice cream parlor served only white children.Pickleweed Through the Ages,said the colorful title splashed across the top. The artist had added his proud scrawl.
She yawned. She had spent the night at the truck stop again, this time treating herself to a longer shower.
She reached for the front door, surprised that the paper was still alive. The front office was empty. She picked up a fresh paper off the counter. It was very thin, more the size of a circular than a real paper. Still alive, but dying like papers across the country, she thought.
She thumbed through the few pages. “Swimming Pool Repairs to Take Longer than Expected.” Death notices. “School Notes: Students Are Writing Essays About the Strength and Courage of Robert E. Lee.” She wasn’t surprised to see a profile of Jerrod Tinsley. She skimmed through it. It was a pure puff piece, much of it a tribute to his work on the Mitchell Brown case, and a mention of his press conference scheduled for after the execution. She moved on. “Jump Rope Club Gets Hopping.”“Ladies’ Luncheon a Savory Success.” “Town Pushes for Stronger Dog Control Laws After Mauling.” This interested her, and she began reading.Animal control says it stopped hiring their own police after an internal audit showed a dismal conviction rate from the last sworn officer.
“Can I help you?”
The man who’d spoken was large, with ink-stained fingers and frowzy white hair that stood on end in a circle on his head. He had a big wen by one eye. His glasses had slipped down his nose.
She knew instantly that any friendliness would evaporate once she identified herself and he heard the North in her voice.
“I’m trying to learn more about a few people,” she said, showing him her notepad, where she had written names.
He peered at them, then at her license.
“Not sure I can help.”
“Maybe they’re mentioned someplace in your paper,” she said.
“Maybe, but we don’t have an index like that.”
“How do you store the older papers? Microfiche?”
He looked unwilling. “Yes.”
“Then that will do.”
The microfiche reader was in the back of his office, the machine grimy. The grime was not dirt but ink from the editor’s inky hands; he’d come to look up something before the paper went to bed.
She turned on the ancient reader, wishing for an aspirin and reading glasses. These things always gave her a headache. She turned up the light, but at best the screen was a dark gray.
She inserted the first reel and began, there, in the town of Pickleweed, when the paper was much bigger, and Betty Dubois was a young woman.
By noon, when the editor was ready to hang his “gone for lunch” sign in the window, Ruby had found three articles.
The first was about Betty Dubois, spinster of Pickleweed. The termspinsterwasn’t used anymore, but it was back when she participated in a dance contest and won the High-Flyin’ Award. The picture showed an ecstatic Betty, her skirt flaring high as she spun in the air, a look of pure bliss on her face.
The second article was on the newer highway, and it quoted a Miss Betty Dubois saying the highway would kill her gas station by diverting all the traffic.
The third article contained the only mention Ruby had found of any of the other names on her list, which included Frank Castle. It featured a picture of people outside the courthouse, on a sunny day when everyone was forced to squint. The man in the front was big and bluff, and he was wearing a white shirt, no jacket. Behind him was an array of court staff.
District Attorney Elected,the caption said.Jerrod Tinsley Takes the Reins.The people in the photo were named—the clerks, the few security guards—which was how Ruby learned that Frank Castle had once worked as a courthouse security guard. He wore an old-style uniform; the shirt had wider lapels, and there were neat button flaps over the pockets.
In the photo, Frank Castle had his hands along his belt, his head lowered against the sun washing out most of his face. He was in his forties then, she guessed. She could barely make out that tiny dot of black and white, but she saw enough to recognize him.
Ruby watched prosecutor Tinsley heading up the street for lunch, surrounded by several professional-looking men. She stopped, watching them. They were dressed in expensive suits, and had that swagger that told her they were not locals, or courthouse staff. Theylooked like the kind of wealthy men who sat on the boards of very rich companies. Yet they had dust on their shoes.
She frowned, and made her way into the courthouse.
There she found an elderly but spry security officer, checking the courtrooms as part of his rounds.
“I’d like to know about Frank Castle,” she said, after introducing herself.
“He got fired,” the lead security said.
“Fired for what?” Ruby asked, enjoying the feeling of the cool halls. It was mercilessly hot out.
