Cold Morning by Ed Ifkovic

sighed, sipped my coffee. It was cold. “But he fell for her.”
    â€œYeah. Big-time. A lummox, that boy.”
    â€œWhat did you mean by her looking at the horizon?”
    â€œWell, the one time I seen her I asked her why she moved out of Chicago. She said something about being in Flemington for pay dirt.”
    â€œMeaning?” Echoes of my own conversation with her in the café bounced in my head.
    â€œWell, at the time I thought she meant because, you know, everybody coming here to make money because of the trial. The hotel adding staff. Like the boys in the street selling souvenirs, like those little wooden ladders that look like the one against the Lindbergh house. Little boys hawking them on corners. That sort of thing. Lots of jobs open in the restaurants and rooming houses. Silver dollars jingling in pockets.”
    â€œBut that’s not your final thought?”
    She shook her head. “No, I felt she was up to something. You know how you get a feeling in your gut?”
    â€œI did, too.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “This was a woman with a purpose.”
    She stared into my eyes. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œWell, frankly, I don’t either. My gut, I suppose.” Idly, I stirred the coffee with a spoon. “You said Cody Lee is innocent.”
    Her voice took on force. She leaned in and I smelled her stale breath, dry, a hint of rosewater on her neck. “I told the sheriff, but no one listens to me. Cody Lee and Annabel battled at the café around six that night, so he storms off, but the manager and this other waitress, Peggy, they told the police Annabel was there till seven, her shift over, when she went home. Seven, Miss Ferber.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œThey seen her till that time. So Cody Lee was back at the farmhouse before seven, twenty minutes or so before, riled up, yes, but there . I remember looking at the grandfather clock in the parlor when he come in, his face red, his neck muscles throbbing, angry as all get out. But I made him some root tea, and the two of us sat in that parlor and listened to the seven o’clock news come on the radio. In fact, we sat there for a couple hours. I remember him chuckling over Fibber McGee and Molly until Cody, he—he tunes in Paul Whiteman.” Her eyes got moist. “He likes the soft music, he does.” At ten we had more tea and some cookies I baked and we turned in. He never left the house, Miss Ferber.”
    â€œSo he couldn’t have murdered Annabel.”
    Her palm slapped the table. “Not ’less he be in two places at one time.”
    â€œYou told this to the sheriff?”
    She nodded rapidly. “And he said it ain’t proof. Just me, a mother lying to protect a murderous son.”
    â€œNo one else saw him?”
    â€œThe Myersons are old, asleep in their room on the other side of the farmhouse. No, just us two.”
    I closed my eyes. “My God.”
    She waited a moment, then reached out to grab the back of my hand, squeezing it. “Do you believe me, Miss Ferber?”
    I said nothing for long time, simply stared back into that lined, horrible face, with unblinking eyes. Finally, tilting back my head, I told her, “Yes, actually, I do.”
    And I did—all the inklings of something amiss with Annabel Biggs gathered together like iron filings drawn to a magnet, and I knew then that this old woman could not lie to me.
    Her eyes teared up and she sat back, her shoulders sagging. “Thank you.” She drew in her breath. “My blessed Jesus. At night, in bed, I stare into the darkness and feel—helpless.”
    â€œWait, Mrs. Thomas. I’m not sure what I can do.”
    She glanced up at the clock over the soda fountain and started. “I have to get back. I have to see Cody Lee. The sheriff…” She stopped. “Miss Ferber, will you come with me?”
    I hesitated. “I don’t