think
Coley Joe stole their money. They had some kind of proof.”
“Proof? What kind of proof?”
“I have no idea. I doubt if Miss Winnie even knows. If she does, she’s never mentioned it to me.”
Grandma glanced toward the hallway that led to Miss Winnie’s bedroom. “I really wish you’d forget about Coley Joe,” she said. “Every time you’ve mentioned him, it’s upset Miss Winnie. She doesn’t want anyone to know about him.”
“Miz Minna knows. She said something about askeleton in the Bonners’ closet. She said something about
proof
, too.”
Grandma Dorothy sighed. “Over the years Miz Minna has held the story of the theft over Miss Winnie’s head.”
“Why?” Andy asked.
Grandpa Zeke broke in. “Why? Because Miz Minna’s family from way back has been livin’ in high cotton. The Bonners, on the other hand, came to Hermosa poor and hungry, then made something of themselves. Miz Minna considers the Bonners upstarts. I guess she wants to keep Miss Winnie in her place and—”
“No more about Coley Joe,” Grandma Dorothy declared. “Ask the questions you need for your report, Andy. We’re ready to answer them. Did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl we didn’t throw away socks that had holes in them? We learned to darn the holes with tiny, woven stitches.”
Andy heard about outhouses and when electricity first came to rural West Texas and having to memorize the multiplication tables through twelve. Grandpa Zeke’s story about the first time he milked a cow and got his milking stool kicked over made Andy laugh. And his mouth watered as Grandma Dorothy described kneading and slicing homemade fudge, which her parents gave to all the near neighbors and friends at Christmas.
“Got enough information, Hunter?” Grandpa Zeke asked. He winked as he used the remote control to turn on the television set. “It’s nine o’clock, and my program’s on now.”
Andy smiled as he got to his feet. “You gave me a lot of good background,” he said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Grandma Dorothy said as she escorted Andy to the front door. “If you come up with any more questions, we’ll be glad to answer them.”
She placed a hand on Andy’s shoulder and paused, glancing with a worried frown toward Miss Winnie’s bedroom. “But please, Andy. Do me a big favor. Please forget all about Coley Joe.”
Andy smushed and crackled his way across the leaf-strewn lawn, remembering too late his intention of raking the leaves for Grandpa Zeke.
Saturday
, he told himself.
Saturday would be a good day.
Once up in his bedroom, Andy yanked the copies of Coley Joe’s letters from the drawer and spread them on his desk. He pulled the magnifying glass out of a “young detective” kit his grandfather had given him on his eighth birthday. So far, all he’d done with the kit was use the glass, along with the sun, to set dried leaves on fire.
“Hey!” Andy laughed. “I’m being a detective right now!” He bent to scan the words through the glass. Hecould make out the narrowest, threadlike sweeps, and he saw where tiny ink blots widened some of the letters. Before long, as if he were learning a foreign language, Andy began to feel at home with the spidery writing and understand it.
The letters were dated the first, eighth, and fourteenth of December 1877.
The first letter began:
My Dearest Felicity
,
I think of you night and day and long to return to Corpus Christi to claim you as my bride.
Andy grimaced. He wished Coley Joe had written straight, plain letters, without turning so mushy over some girl.
Coley Joe went on to describe the rigors of his trip to the noisy, dusty town of El Paso across the miles of scrub-covered prairie.
In his second letter, along with the yucky love stuff, he wrote of widespread gambling in El Paso and numerous saloons—“too many to count.”
His third letter told of making a friend, “a learned gentleman,” who worked as chief clerk for a
Coley Joe stole their money. They had some kind of proof.”
“Proof? What kind of proof?”
“I have no idea. I doubt if Miss Winnie even knows. If she does, she’s never mentioned it to me.”
Grandma glanced toward the hallway that led to Miss Winnie’s bedroom. “I really wish you’d forget about Coley Joe,” she said. “Every time you’ve mentioned him, it’s upset Miss Winnie. She doesn’t want anyone to know about him.”
“Miz Minna knows. She said something about askeleton in the Bonners’ closet. She said something about
proof
, too.”
Grandma Dorothy sighed. “Over the years Miz Minna has held the story of the theft over Miss Winnie’s head.”
“Why?” Andy asked.
Grandpa Zeke broke in. “Why? Because Miz Minna’s family from way back has been livin’ in high cotton. The Bonners, on the other hand, came to Hermosa poor and hungry, then made something of themselves. Miz Minna considers the Bonners upstarts. I guess she wants to keep Miss Winnie in her place and—”
“No more about Coley Joe,” Grandma Dorothy declared. “Ask the questions you need for your report, Andy. We’re ready to answer them. Did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl we didn’t throw away socks that had holes in them? We learned to darn the holes with tiny, woven stitches.”
Andy heard about outhouses and when electricity first came to rural West Texas and having to memorize the multiplication tables through twelve. Grandpa Zeke’s story about the first time he milked a cow and got his milking stool kicked over made Andy laugh. And his mouth watered as Grandma Dorothy described kneading and slicing homemade fudge, which her parents gave to all the near neighbors and friends at Christmas.
“Got enough information, Hunter?” Grandpa Zeke asked. He winked as he used the remote control to turn on the television set. “It’s nine o’clock, and my program’s on now.”
Andy smiled as he got to his feet. “You gave me a lot of good background,” he said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Grandma Dorothy said as she escorted Andy to the front door. “If you come up with any more questions, we’ll be glad to answer them.”
She placed a hand on Andy’s shoulder and paused, glancing with a worried frown toward Miss Winnie’s bedroom. “But please, Andy. Do me a big favor. Please forget all about Coley Joe.”
Andy smushed and crackled his way across the leaf-strewn lawn, remembering too late his intention of raking the leaves for Grandpa Zeke.
Saturday
, he told himself.
Saturday would be a good day.
Once up in his bedroom, Andy yanked the copies of Coley Joe’s letters from the drawer and spread them on his desk. He pulled the magnifying glass out of a “young detective” kit his grandfather had given him on his eighth birthday. So far, all he’d done with the kit was use the glass, along with the sun, to set dried leaves on fire.
“Hey!” Andy laughed. “I’m being a detective right now!” He bent to scan the words through the glass. Hecould make out the narrowest, threadlike sweeps, and he saw where tiny ink blots widened some of the letters. Before long, as if he were learning a foreign language, Andy began to feel at home with the spidery writing and understand it.
The letters were dated the first, eighth, and fourteenth of December 1877.
The first letter began:
My Dearest Felicity
,
I think of you night and day and long to return to Corpus Christi to claim you as my bride.
Andy grimaced. He wished Coley Joe had written straight, plain letters, without turning so mushy over some girl.
Coley Joe went on to describe the rigors of his trip to the noisy, dusty town of El Paso across the miles of scrub-covered prairie.
In his second letter, along with the yucky love stuff, he wrote of widespread gambling in El Paso and numerous saloons—“too many to count.”
His third letter told of making a friend, “a learned gentleman,” who worked as chief clerk for a
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