CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Beatrice called Alan, and he agreed to meet her at the Mueller Drug Store to share a chocolate malt, and then go for a walk in the park. Not many townsfolk ventured into the North Side Park since the murder of Martha Camp; but as always, life moves forward, whether good or bad, it marches onward.
Hazel was tending to the soda fountain as her beloved Herbert was filling a prescription for Ruth over at the main counter. Beatrice arrived early, as was her custom, and sat down on the red-plastic topped swivel stool in front of Hazel.
“So dear, what can I get ya?” Hazel asked with a heartwarming smile.
“Oh, nothing just yet, I’m waiting for someone,” she quietly replied.
“Yes indeed, I’m sure your fella will be here soon dearie,” she said grinning and even offered up a sly wink; for Beatrice and Alan had been seen many a time hand-in-hand strolling along the avenues of downtown Saint Cloud.
Beatrice just replied with a slight smile as she spun around to keep an eye on the front entrance.
Herbert handed Ruth her blood-pressure medicine, “Now remember to take one pill each morning with plenty of water.”
“I’m not a child Herb; I’ve been taking these things for over fifteen years now, and you always say the same damn thing every time I come to pick them up.” Sassy and direct as always.
“Now, you know why I say the same thing each time, because you keep forgetting to take them, each and every day, like you’re supposed to. That’s why I have to constantly preach at you,” he said shaking his long slender finger at her.
Ruth glared at Herbert for a few moments, as his words echoed throughout the entire store attracting quick looks from Hazel and Beatrice; who just as quickly looked away, so as not to embarrass Ruth, as she did glance their way to see if they heard Herbert’s reproach of her forgetfulness.
Not one to pass up a chance to gossip, “So Herb, you think it was that dirty Bobby Taylor boy who knocked-up Stacy Steimel?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all if he was. Both Bobby and Stacy have been seen sneaking off into the woods you know; and nether one has a lick-a-sense.” Herbert loved to gossip as much as any woman in town.
Ruth continued, “You know, since the murders, most Christian folks are a might happier that her little ‘bastard’ won’t make the three hundredth mark and…”
“Herbert Mueller! If you don’t have anything better to do, then I’ll be more than happy to come over there, and find something for you to do! You hear me!” Hazel yelled across the room.
Startled, Herbert turned around and started pretending to stack items on the small shelves located behind him; as Ruth froze momentarily, not sure what to do until she heard the small bell above the door jiggle and jangle as Alan entered. That was her queue to make a hasty retreat, which she did.
Beatrice gave a short wave to draw Alan over. Both now sitting side-by-side, she hooked her arm around his and rested her head ever-so-gently on his shoulder.
Hazel gave them a few moments before asking if they were ready for their usual. With both nodding in agreement, she whipped up their chocolate malt, with two straws, and positioned it between the two lovebirds, which is how she envisioned them to be. They were only half-way through their malt when Hazel decided it was time for conversation.
“Well, what do you think they should do with that Taylor boy? I think that good-for-nothing deadbeat should get the electric-chair for what he done to poor Mary, don’t you feel that way too?” Hazel asked.
Herbert stopped stacking and turned, placed his hands on his hips and stared at his wife; who moments ago chastised him for what she was now doing. Hazel acknowledged his stare and simply waved him off as she waited for their replies. Herbert just shook his head and smiled; for he knew his wife oh-so-well, she too loved to hear juicy chatter.
Beatrice shook her head in agreement as she kept on sucking down the malt. Alan stopped, wiped his lips with a napkin and studied Mrs. Mueller’s face for a moment before answering, “I think what Bobby Taylor did was reprehensible; but I think getting the electric chair would be a miscarriage of justice. Better to let a jury of his peers decide such a thing is what I feel should take place.”
“Well, putting aside your fancy talk, I still think the little varmint should get the chair, and I bet Mary would agree with me on this,” she said wiping down the timeworn green counter-top.
Alan decided not to push the issue; too many feelings were involved he felt, so he made small talk with Beatrice for a while before saying their goodbyes to the Mueller’s. Off they went, hand-in-hand heading for the park; but they hadn’t gone nary a block when Beatrice decided she could wait no longer to talk with Alan privately.
Pulling him to a stop, she turned and faced him, “Why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble sleeping?”
Alan studied her face as he desperately searched his mind for an answer that would calm her fears, and keep his bogus relationship intact, “I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything, I just didn’t want you to worry. I know you’re as stressed and concerned as I am.”
She felt it was time to just come right out and ask. Wrapping her arms around his waist as she looked up into his eyes, “Just tell me the truth Alan. Do you love me?”
Panic flashed over Alan’s entire body; it felt as though someone had just poured a bucket full of ice-water down his back. Sickness in his stomach started to rise to his throat as he responded to her ominous question of his true feelings for her. “Yes,” he heard himself whisper softly as he stared down at her face, which now erupted into joyous tears.
Placing his arms around her and squeezing her as tightly as she was now squeezing him; dread like he had never felt before now took hold of his mind for the humongous lie he had just uttered.
How would he ever face up to such a betrayal as this, he thought; for surely the time might come when his sexual orientation might come to the light of day, and he would be exposed for the lying scoundrel he truly had become.
That day of reckoning, to be sure, would come to pass for Alan Wallace sooner than expected; for there would be, without a doubt, a heart broken and a homicide. For the old saying is true undeniably; hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.