Clara Hastings's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

Clara came up the porch steps at dusk. Mildred was still in the same chair, teacup empty, watching the road like she had all afternoon. The screen door creaked when Clara pulled it open. "Long day at the library?" Mildred said. She did not look up. "You left before six. You came back at noon. You left again. Now it's dark." "Deadline week." "Third deadline this month, then." Mildred set the cup on the rail. "Look. The man in unit four kept those same hours. In and out. Wouldn't say where. He's not in unit four anymore." Clara's hand tightened on the satchel strap. She made herself smile. "Come inside. I'll show you." She led Mildred to the kitchen table and unbuckled the satchel. She took out a folded sheet and flattened it under the lamp. A handwritten note. Daily Journal at the top. Market Trends. Due Friday, five o'clock. Two arrows in the margin. Research stats. Add quotes. Check sources. She had written it that morning at the diner, before Marcus arrived. "Market piece," Clara said. "It's boring work. I've been hitting the county records office and the chamber of commerce. Old ledgers. Nobody keeps those files past four, so I go early and stay late." Mildred picked up the note. She read it twice. She turned it over. "Daily Journal pays on delivery?" "Half on delivery. That's why the hours." Mildred set the note down. Her mouth moved like she was tasting something. "Honestly, I thought you were seeing somebody. Or worse." "Just the deadline." "You should have said. I've been telling the woman across the street you were up to something." She frowned at her own hands. "I'll walk that back tomorrow. She talks." Clara kept her face still. "I'd appreciate that." Mildred pushed the note back across the table. "Bring me a copy when it prints. I want to see my tenant's name in the paper for once." "I will." Mildred went to the sink and rinsed her cup. Clara folded the note and slid it back into the satchel. Her hands were steady this time. Upstairs, she sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the pipes. Mildred had bought it. Mildred would also tell the woman across the street, and the baker, and whoever else she had already told. The story would spread the way Mildred's stories spread. Clara had a week, maybe less, before someone with real reason to check called the Daily Journal and asked which market piece she was writing. She opened her notepad to a clean page. She wrote: Friday. Marsh has the address by Wednesday. Move on the groundskeeper before the cover breaks. She packed a change of clothes and the sketch into a smaller bag. Tomorrow night she would not come home. There was a run-down hotel out by the airstrip that took cash.