Lucinda Jones

By Tank Gunner

In June 1950, Lucinda Jones, an aspiring journalist from Paris Junior College, comes to work for Miss Maybelle Winters at the PALOMINO PRESS, as President Truman commits US Forces to repel the invasion of the Republic of Korea. She uncovers secrets, challenges stubbornness, defies injustice, wins trust, discovers her strengths and weaknesses, and delights in the excitement and serenity of true love. This endearing story brings to life once again many of the author's memorable, down-to-earth characters we know and adore from Tank's other novels: The Redeemer, Palomino, and Porky Baycann.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350936100

Book preview

1

Yesterday, June Twenty-seven, President Harry S. Truman announced he had ordered United States air and naval forces to fight with South Korea’s Army, two days after Communist North Korea invaded South Korea . . .

Lucinda Jones turned off the radio and parked her new Nash Airflyte in front of the Palomino Press.

She shut off the engine and took a deep breath.

Feeling a bit eager, she glanced left and right at the empty sidewalks.

Firmly grasping and adjusting the rearview mirror, she peered into it – poking and pushing her new pixie-styled red hair. Satisfied, she reached into her red-stitched leather purse, pulled out an engraved silver Zippo lighter, put a Camel between her red lips, and lit it.

She quietly smoked while fiddling to get the mirror back in place.

Through the windows of the newspaper office, she watched the hurried back-and-forth movements of two people she knew – Maybelle Winters, owner and publisher of the paper and Stan Stern, the photographer. An unrecognizable figure, dressed in a white shirt and a navy baseball cap, stood immobile in the frenzy. Head movements and hand gestures suggested the person was apparently talking with the other two.

Lucinda took a deep, final drag.

Exhaling, she maneuvered the cigarette between her left middle fingernail and thumb and flipped the butt out of the Nash.

Looking again at the three people through the office windows, her mismatched-eyes – one brown, the other hazel – caught peripheral black and white flashes from a window in the store next door.

Curious, she concentrated on a small television screen and watched the alternating images of a biplane doing barrel rolls and a man on the ground pointing and grinning.

Lucinda smiled.

Stunt flying.

Barber Gundersun.

She knew Barber; as an intern she had worked for him on two exposé pieces. He was a popular writer of human-interest stories for the Dallas Times Herald and had often lectured in two of her classes.

Lucinda remembered Barber’s closing advice at the end of a lecture: Reporters must get cleaned up and look pretty for the new-fangled thing called television.

The silent images on the tiny oval glass, set in a huge piece of dark wood furniture, held her attention until a man wearing an Army field jacket came running up the sidewalk, shouting at store doors and holding a large rifle.

War, the weapon bearer barked. War. Annie getchur gun. We’re at war. Annie, getchur gun.

He stopped in front of the Nash, raised his rifle at the newspaper’s door, and shouted again. War. We’re at war all over again, over there.

Lucinda narrowed her hazel eye and brown eye, assessing the threat on the sidewalk in front of her car.

Maybelle was first out, followed by the stranger, then Stan.

Oh, my, Coogan, we know. Maybelle’s voice was soft, soothing. We know, Coogan. She held out a hand, palm down. Please put the rifle down, don’t point it at anybody. Please lower your rifle. Do it for me. It’ll be alright.

Is it loaded? Stan asked. Is your gun loaded, Coogan?

The man with the ball cap placed fingers on the barrel to keep the gun down. Let me hold the rifle for you, Coogan.

A man from the store next door, the TV store, came up. Coogan, it’s Web. It’s your good friend, Web.

Web affectionately patted Coogan’s shoulder with his left hand, and with his right pulled the rifle from Coogan’s grasp. We’re here with you, Coogan. Everthing is gonna be alright. Coogan? You hear me? Everything is gonna be alright.

We’re at war again. God bless America and pass the ammunition. We’re at war again, over there. Sergeant Maynard is dead, I can’t find Charlie and Corporal Grayson ain’t got no legs. Lordy mercy, we’re at war again.

Listening to Coogan’s lament, Lucinda’s eyes softened. Her soul sensed anguish in Coogan’s voice; her heart felt his torment.

Thank you, Mister Webster, the man in the navy baseball cap said. I’d take Coogan home, but I’m a little busy right now. There’s a body out near the Katy station and I came to get Stan to take pictures. Sheriff Dudley and Sheriff Blake are waiting on us. Would you take care of Coogan?

Yes, Porky. Web said. He gently rubbed and patted Coogan’s shoulder. Let’s go to Jeeps and get Bobby Jo to make us an ice cream soda, Coogan. Wanna do that?

Can we get peanuts with it? Coogan asked. I like peanuts.

We sure can. A whole bag and we can sprinkle them on the ice cream or eat them while we drink the Coke.

Dr Pepper, Coogan said. Peanuts goes with Dr Pepper. Did you know Dr Pepper is made in Texas?

Yes, we know, Coogan, Web said. He pulled on Coogan’s elbow, and they turned away. Here, let’s go to Jeeps, and then I’ll take you home.

Waco, Stan said after them. Dr Pepper was started in Waco.

We have to go now, Stan. The sheriffs want your pictures for their investigation because the camera may record evidence they don’t see, Porky said.

Lucinda got out of her car, closed its door, and stood for a moment.

When no one took notice of her, she spoke.

Hello, Miss Maybelle. Hello, Stan, Lucinda said in a strong voice. It looks like I got here at a busy moment.

Oh, my, Lucinda, I’m sorry. We were distracted. Poor Coogan is not right. Come on in. Stan is on his way with Porky – our Constable, Portland Baycann. Maybelle held out a hand. Let me introduce you. Lucinda, may I introduce Porky . . . ah, I’m sorry . . . Portland Baycann. Portland, this is Lucinda Jones. Stan and I first met Lucinda at PJC, and we got to know each other during our lectures to her journalism classes. I invited Lucinda to come talk with me about taking on assignments for my paper.

I want to do that, Miss Maybelle, but I heard what Constable Baycann told Mister Web, so I want to go right now on assignment with Stan to the dead body at the Katy station.

Maybelle grinned. That’s exactly the kind of thing an assignment reporter would say, Lucinda. It’s news, and people need to know.

What do you think, Porky? Stan asked.

I . . . I don’t know, Porky stammered. Maybe I better ask . . .

Billy and Jim won’t mind, Maybelle said.

Stan added, looking at Lucinda. As long as we stay out of their way,

Okay, Darlin, we’ll talk about the paper when you get back, Maybelle said and passed through the paper’s doorway.

Porky pointed. My truck. We need to get moving.

Let me get the camera and things, Stan said.

I need a pad and pencil, Stan, Lucinda said.

While they waited, Lucinda realized Porky was looking at her. She faced him without speaking.

I like your hair, Porky said, I mean the style. Short. And red. I think we got only two redheads in town.

It’s called a pixie cut. It’s a new fashion. I thought I’d try it. She smiled. Thank you for noticing. I’m glad to hear you like it.

She watched his eyes shift from her left eye to her right and back. Her smile spread into a grin. Which one do you like better?

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.

Genes. Most people believe people with red hair have green eyes. Women with red hair have blue, brown, or hazel eyes most often. In my case, I got the best of both – hazel for one, brown for the other. Makes people uncomfortable, though.

Why?

Well, I think it’s sort of looking at a person who has a lazy eye. We can’t decide which eye to look at when we’re talking with them. Same way with my two colors. And that gives me a leg up.

Porky laughed.

Stan came out with his bulky Graflex in one hand, the flash gun in his other hand, and a black press photographer bag strapped over a shoulder. I’m ready. I’ve got a pad and pencil for you in the bag.

Lucinda turned to follow the two men.

Stan stopped and looked at her. You got a purse?

It’s in the car.

Wanna get it?

Think I need to?

No, not in Palomino, Porky said. Paris maybe, Dallas for sure. But not in Palomino. Most people in town leave the key in the car in case somebody needs to move it. You can even leave your key in it, too. It’s up to you.

Okay, I’ll leave everything in the car. My keys are in the car.

Well, a Nash in Palomino is a rarity. People will look, they may even get in and sit behind the wheel, but nobody will take it.

I only have thirteen dollars in bills, a dollar-eighteen in change, some Camels, and my cigarette lighter in my purse. My leather purse is worth more than all that. I bought it at Neiman’s.

Lucinda and Stan got in the passenger side of Porky’s pickup with him behind the wheel. Lucinda sat between the men.

Camels. You smoke Camel cigarettes? Porky asked.

Ummm.

He chuckled. Red hair and Camel cigarettes. I wonder what else?

The ride was less than five minutes.

A white Chevy ambulance, two sheriff sedans with red globes, and two black Plymouth Coupes were parked side by side facing the railroad tracks. A gray pump cart sat majestically on the rails.

As they approached, Lucinda saw two medical attendants dressed in white, the two law enforcement officers with large, holstered revolvers hanging off wide brown belts, and two other men wearing Fedoras. All were surrounding a short man in railroad work clothes and wearing gloves.

Give me the pad and pencil, Stan. I need to write this scene down.

He did, and she kept up, observing and scribbling, as they moved to the group.

Porky made the introductions. He looked at Lucinda. The reason Sheriff Dudley and Sheriff Blake are here is because . . .

Jurisdiction, Lucinda said. Lamar County and Red River County. Which county is the body in?

Her question went unanswered.

Last time I saw you was when the last of the POWs got on the train. You were a kid, Sheriff Dudley said. I knew your daddy well. Worked with him at the camp. Good man. As best he could, he always did the right thing with the neighbors and prisoners.

I learned from my father, he was a good teacher.

Stan, Sheriff Blake will explain what we know so far, Dudley said.

Sheriff Blake kept an eye on Lucinda, who was taking notes as he laid out the situation to Stan.

Elijah was on the pump cart bringing tools from the Bogata shed down to the Katy station and found Rainey Hightower layin on the sleepers between the tracks. He thought Rainey had passed out again, but when he tried to wake him, Elijah said he saw what looked like a bullet hole in the back of Rainey’s head and a rope around his neck. We need pictures, Stan, before we turn Rainey’s body over. Now, I’m not worried about you messing things up – evidence and such – you’ve done this before, so take as much time as you need – no stone unturned.

So, you left Katy station to go up to the Bogata shed, and the body wasn’t here? Lucinda asked Elijah.

Elijah looked from Lucinda to both sheriffs and back to Lucinda. No, he wasn’t here.

How long where you . . .?

Sheriff Blake cut her off. Hold on just a minute, Miss Jones. Now’s not the time.

No one spoke for a couple of seconds, all looking at the reporter.

Okay, Stan, go ahead, Sheriff Dudley said.

Okay, Jim. Stan began with several snaps of the cluster of bystanders and vehicles. He paused halfway up the rocky track ballast to shoot various angles and close-ups before moving to the cart. He mounted the cart, shot pictures as he inched his way round in a complete circle, and then jumped down for photos of the body and the surrounding ground, tracks, and sleeper where Rainey Hightower lay.

All the time Stan was photographing, Lucinda was preparing her record by jotting notes and writing short sentences.

One of the men wearing a Fedora spoke. As soon as Stan gets all the pictures he needs, Sheriff, I’ll have a look.

Right, Doctor Gates. You wanna look to, Mayor?

No, not really. It seems macabre to go look at someone who’s just died. I don’t really need to, Jim, but I’ll go with Doctor Gates to tell Rainey’s woman.

May I look?

The men looked at Lucinda.

I represent the press. Miss Maybelle sent Stan and me on this assignment for her paper. It’s news, and people need to know.

Stan called from the tracks, stumbling down the rocky slope. Okay, I got all I need. He stopped close and spoke to Sheriff Blake. I don’t think Rainey died here, Billy. Let me show you what I saw.

All ten walked to the edge of the crushed stones and looked at the exposed part of the back and head.

Stan raised both arms for balance and scampered to the top of the rocky mound. He pointed. This is a rope I’ve seen at Wolf Hunter’s Gulf station. He uses it to pull cars, trucks, and tractors – and I’ve seen it hanging from a rafter holding engines he’s pulled out to work on. Crane’s hardware has bundles of this rope. It’s called manila.

Sheriff Blake shook his head. I’ve seen that kind of rope all over the county, Stan. Manila rope is a common everyday rope. Some farmers use it for their cows and goats.

And I’ve seen it on Crook Lake. Fishermen and boaters use it to tie up, Sheriff Dudley said. Nothing unusual about a manila rope except that piece is a noose around Rainey’s neck.

Yeah, but the other thing is blood. Somebody shot Rainey in the back of his head, but I don’t see no blood on the tracks, sleepers, or ground around him.

That means he was shot some other place.

The Sheriffs looked at each other and grinned.

Nancy Drew, Jim Dudley said.

Billy Blake nodded. Believe you’re right, Jim.

Lucinda smiled but remained quiet.

Doctor Gates climbed up and stood over Rainey. "Danny, please bring the stretcher, and Ray, please bring my bag and stethoscope from my car. Okay, which county have you decided that has jurisdiction?

Red River, Billy said. He’s on my side of the line . . . well, the imaginary county line.

Then, Sheriff Blake, I want to turn Rainey over and make a preliminary exam and my official pronouncement of his death.

Go ahead, Pearly. I’m going to turn Rainey over to you.

But you have to look at him, Sheriff, Lucinda said. And look for evidence, look for clues. The poor man has died out in the country – a suspicious death, no less – with a rope around his neck and a bullet hole in his head. That should add up to a homicide.

Elijah found his voice. That’s not the first one out here, neither. I found another boy shot and left on the track. Seven, eight years ago. Shot dead, you know.

The Canton boy, Artemis – Arty. Car thief, bank robber, and a lot of other trouble. Summer of Forty-three, Billy said. We always thought Ruby shot the boy but could never prove it.

Why not? Lucinda asked.

You, young lady, are a pain in the . . .

I’m sorry, Sheriff Blake. I’m a curious reporter. I want to know, that’s why I ask questions.

Well, another time. Billy nodded. Go ahead, Pearly.

Danny brought up the stretcher and laid it outside the rail. Ray handed over the bag and stethoscope.

Gates positioned the earpieces and nodded at Danny, who turned Rainey over. The doctor paused, scanning Rainey’s corpse, before listening for life. He looked at the group. Mister Hightower is a victim of homicide – strangulation and gunshot – and I see your first clue of probably why he was murdered, Billy.

Yeah, Doc? What is it?

"A sheet torn out of a tablet is pinned to his shirt, with two words printed in big letters – horse thief – but thief is spelled t-h-e-i-f."

Oh, Lord Billy said. Tried and convicted by vigilante justice.

Danny, bring Mister Hightower to the hospital.

I’ve read some of the Nancy Drew stories, Sheriff Blake, the old ones and the new ones, but I don’t want to be a detective. I do want to write about Elijah finding Mister Hightower and what you’ve found here, and I want to write the story when you find who done it.

I’ll keep that in mind, young lady. In the meantime, I don’t want you jumpin the gun and spillin any beans about what we’ve found out here. There’s got to be an investigation.

Yes, I understand, Sheriff Blake. I’ve learned what to do. I’ll do it right.

In Porky’s truck, in silent thought, Porky, Lucinda, and Stan followed the ambulance back to town.

As Porky slowed his pickup to park, he issued a warning. Don’t speak or write about the lack of blood or the note, Lucinda. Those are special things of evidence the public doesn’t need to know right away, okay?

Yes, I understand Constable. I know about that. I know the rules.

2

Porky parked his truck at an angle to the sidewalk, on the left side of the Nash.

Main Street in Palomino never had lines to designate parking spaces. In fact, there were no parking space lines on any street, at the school, hospital, or churches. When in town, folks parked their cars, trucks, tractors, and horse – or mule-drawn wagons head-in to the sidewalk in an orderly fashion – making their own imaginary lines on the aged, pre-turn of the century-asphalt.

Of course, there were always carrots or apples for the four-legged power movers, who warily eyed passersby and followed their movements with great interest and curiosity, hoping for a handful of orange carrots, a green Granny, or Red Delicious.

Often, when they had business at the fire station, drivers parked in front of the garage door where old, red Engine 78 rested. The fire department in Palomino, as did all fire departments in rural Texas towns, depended on volunteer firefighters. So, it didn’t matter if cars and trucks – even tricycles and bicycles – blocked the path, the truck wasn’t going to a fire until Arthur Little arrived to drive it.

Stan opened the door, got out of the truck, and turned to gather up his Graflex and bag filled with bulbs, flash attachment, film, tripod, and a multitude of photographers’ whatnots.

I’ll get to processing the film right away for Sheriff Blake, Stan said, and then you can help me figure out how use the new camera Maybelle bought. She said it was a TV camera, but it looks just like the two little movie cameras I’ve seen in magazines and Webster’s store.

He left the truck door open, expecting Lucinda to follow him.

Lucinda did not slide over to the passenger side.

She sat close to Porky, their arms touching; and they silently watched Stan jog up the sidewalk steps and stroll into the office.

I like Stan, Lucinda said. How old is he?

Mid-forties, maybe even fifty. I think he was my age when he came to school to take pictures of all of us.

You’ve lived here all your life?

Porky nodded. Born here, sure nuff.

In the hospital?

He grinned. Momma had a midwife, but she couldn’t do the job. Daddy had taken the Katy to Paris, then a bus to a truck outfit in Oak City to talk about a job. Miss Collard was the midwife, and Miss Kearney was her helper, the doula. Well, when it got to the point I was gonna be difficult, Miss Collard and Miss Kearney wrapped Momma in the bedspread, put her in the back of the pickup, and gunned it for the hospital. But they didn’t make it. I was born at the intersection of College and Pace.

Stan came out on the sidewalk. Maybelle is gone. He shook his head. And my key to the darkroom is at home. As quickly as he had come out of the office and made the announcement, he had turned and gone back in.

Stan has . . . he’s . . .

Aware, Lucinda picked up on Porky’s hesitation. He seems all right. We all get frustrated and flustered, and a little confused or absentminded.

You don’t talk like us. You talk like they do in the pitchusho. You weren’t born in Texas, I bet, being a Army family.

"No. Born at Fort Benning in Georgia. Daddy moved a lot when he was young, and we, Momma and me, were part of the baggage. At least he took us with him. I grew up with strangers because we moved every two years. By the time I was comfortable with new friends, we were off to another post.

Daddy bought the house in Paris because it was next door to PJC, where he taught after retiring. I’ve got one friend I exchange letters with, Callie, Callie Long. She’s in Chicago, works for a music company.

Is she a singer? Musician?

No, she’s an assistant to a producer, Barker Mays. The producer works with the performers, and Callie makes arrangements for travel and hotel and places to eat for the performers because they need a special place to eat and sleep. Sometimes Callie goes with them – she’s been with Nat King Cole, Louis Armstrong, and Ella Fitzgerald. I heard Ella sing Dream a Little Dream of Me on the radio the other night.

T J, Porky said. T J is my friend in Chicago. Thomas James Workman. He’s a great singer. Made records, been on the radio. She, Callie, she may know my friend, then. He’s coming home for the fourth. His uncle, Preacher Adams, took him in when his daddy was killed and his momma jumped off a bridge in Seattle. Maybe you could write a story about T J for the newspaper.

I’d love to do that, but first I’ve got to get the job here with Miss Maybelle.

Porky looked into Lucinda’s eyes and smiled. You’ll get the job.

Lucinda met Porky’s inviting smile. Would you recommend me?

Smile still in place, Porky’s head slightly dipped. You can depend on it, Lucinda.

In school, some of my teachers and classmates called me Luci. I really don’t care much for Luci. I like Lucinda. I like for my friends to call me Lucinda, Would you be my friend, Porky?

Hmmm. I kinda like Luci, but I’ll be better than a friend, Lucinda. I’ll be your best friend.

Lucinda felt the urge to lean in for a kiss and was about to, when Stan came out again.

Lucinda, would you come help me? Stan called. I need someone to answer the phone if somebody calls or comes in to place an ad.

Yes, Lucinda answered. I’ll come right away, Stan.

She looked at Porky. I like it that you’ll be my best friend. I’ll need someone I can talk to, being a stranger in town. I’ll need a shoulder to lean on.

They were oblivious to passersby and shoppers on the sidewalk, some who waved as they hurried by on urgent errands.

Do you like hamburgers?

I love hamburgers.

How about we get a hamburger for supper, here at Jeeps?

She sighed. I can’t. If Miss Maybelle gives me a job, I’ll want to look for a place to live, here in Palomino.

The Porter House. Miss Ethel rents rooms at the Porter House.

I remember Daddy talking about the Porter House. That’s where the Germans stayed.

Yes.

Lucinda?

Yes, Stan, I’m coming. Lucinda slid across the seat, got out, and walked around to Porky’s window.

Hamburger. Ummm, I love onions on my hamburger. I think you might be talking about a date?

His eyes shined with his grin of great anticipation. Yes, Lucinda. Would you go on a date with me? I’ll show you around my town. We’ll go to the pitchursho . . .

Pit . . . pitchursho?

Yes, that’s how we say picture show in Palomino.

Pitchursho, how quaint, interesting. Does everybody say pitchursho?

Yes, here in Palomino, that’s the way they say it. I’ve never heard it said any other way.

Pitchursho. I love it. Pitchursho.

Okay, we’ll go to the . . .

Pitchursho.

Yes. And then we’ll go to Jeeps for a hamburger – with lots of onions.

I accept.

And after that, we’ll see what comes next.

Lucinda placed her arms on the truck’s window frame and leaned in, her face close to Porky’s.

I love what may come next.

Lucinda straightened up on the honk of a horn, turned to look, and shook her head in admiration. Oh, my.

Maybelle eased her red Cadillac convertible into a parking position close enough that Lucinda reached out and touched the boat.

What a beautiful car, Lucinda said, caressing the top of the passenger door frame. I would never have guessed you would be the girl who loved wind blowing through her hair.

Maybelle shut off the engine. I have a passion for fine cars, fine wine, and loose men. What did you find out, out there on the tracks?

Standing between Maybelle’s car and Porky’s pickup, Lucinda could have appeared watching a high-energy tennis match as her head swung left and right depending, on who spoke.

Maybelle shook her head after hearing the whole story. "No. I don’t believe it one bit. Rainey’s a farmer, not a rancher. – a very rich farmer, probably the richest man in Red River County, as rich even as Major Monroe. Rainey could buy all the horses he wanted and dozens more for a dozen other people. It’s a red herring. Rainey was killed for another reason. The rope and note are false clues to send Billy down the wrong trail. Somebody shot Rainey in the back of the head because he wasn’t looking for it. Somebody Rainey knew and trusted. Murder, alright. That’s gonna be juicy.

"The misspelling of thief as t-h-e-i-f is