Free Letter From Home by Carolyn Hart

If Mr. Cooley had seen that, he wouldn’t sound like he was talking in a movie about somebody who wasn’t real.
    â€œShe lived up the street from me.” Gretchen was surprised she’d spoken. Mr. Cooley blinked, like it was the first time he’d noticed she was there. He gave her a funny look, almost a sneer. Gretchen ripped off more wire copy. “She was exciting to be around. All the kids liked her. She used to fix homemade strawberry ice cream for Barb. That’s Barb’s favorite.” She stopped at a story about the fighting in Italy. Any news about the Forty-fifth Division was important. The Forty-fifth came from Oklahoma.
    Cooley gave a husky rasp of laughter. “Just a dandy American mom—when she wasn’t being a barfly.”
    Gretchen spiked the story. She whirled toward the reporter, her face burning. “Mrs. Tatum wasn’t like that. Barb said her mom just loved to dance. That’s all. Barb said her mom told her dad all she wanted to do was dance.”
    â€œOh, sure. And there are leprechauns in my desk drawer.” Cooley’s mouth curved in a mocking grin. “Anyway, I can tell you that Faye was higher than a kite last night. Then she got loud and weepy and pretty soon she was at the bar, going up and down, asking people what they’d do if somebody said they were running around on their wife or husband. Then she got belligerent, asking if anybody knew who’d said those things about her. That’s when Lou talked to her. Faye quieted down. The last time I saw her, she was in that hallway back by the bathrooms and she was leaning against the wall, holding on to the receiver at the pay phone. The chief wants to know who she talked to. He says that could be the key to the whole thing. The county attorney isn’t impressed. Durwood says it looks pretty clear that the Tatums were having trouble. Seems there was a disturbing the peace call from the next-door neighbor late in the afternoon. Durwood said the chief needs to check that out. The chief said he goddam well knows how to run his own investigation and when he needs help from the county attorney, he’ll call on him. The sheriff’s already been out to see Lou Hopper. I called the Crane house, but I didn’t get any answer.”
    â€œFaye didn’t get killed yesterday afternoon.” Mr. Dennis’s voice was mild. “Hey, Gretchen, check the morgue for mug shots of Chief Fraser, Sheriff Moore, and Donny Durwood, the county attorney. I’ll run a sidebar: Lawmen Seeking Killer.”
    Gretchen walked to the big wooden filing cabinets in the corner near the Teletype. She pulled out the drawer marked D-E-F.
    Cooley yanked the last sheet from his typewriter. “She sure as hell croaked last night—and that happened after she and Tatum had their dustup at the Blue Light.” Cooley scribbled a slug on the sheets, pushed back from his desk, and rolled his chair the two feet to the editor’s desk.
    Gretchen picked two photographs out of the files in D-E-F, found the sheriff’s file in M-N-O. Chief Fraser looked like an old bulldog, but not as tired as he had last night. Sheriff Paul Moore’s long face reminded her of a sheriff in the westerns, maybe because his eyes had a flat, cold stare and he wore a string tie, real old-fashioned. Donald Durwood, the county attorney, gazed straight at the camera, stalwart as an Eagle Scout, short blond hair, regular features, firm chin.
    Mr. Dennis reached out for Cooley’s copy. “Did Faye leave the Blue Light by herself?”
    Gretchen placed the photos on his desk.
    â€œShe went out the door alone. Who knows?” Cooley rubbed his nose, gave a big yawn. “Anyway, she went home and got herself strangled. If you ask me, she was asking for it.”
    â€œNobody asked you.” Gretchen’s voice was wobbly, but she glared at him, her gaze furious, and his eyes dropped first. “She was