Mrs. “Ruthless” Groggins is such a plain woman, she’ll probably disappear if she ever turns pale. Which is likely why Ruthless married her. No matter how slovenly or hungover he is, he has to look good standin’ by her side.
“Rufus ain’t here, Sheriff,” she tole me.
“Yes, ma’am. Kin you tell me where he might be?”
“Workin’.”
That was a novelty. But I didn’t say so. I said, “Well, mebbe you kin help me.”
She waited, not givin’ the slightest sign of resentment or curiosity, or even that she’d heard.
“I wonder, could you tell me where Rufus was the night of the seventh, last month? Did he go out, do you recall?”
She stared like she hadn’t heard me, for long enough to make me wonder. Then she blinked once an’ said, “He was at the rally.”
It took me twenty minutes like that to get it out of her that Ruthless’d been away that whole week. An’ that she hadn’t believed he was where he said, either, ’til he’d showed her the newspaper pi’ture. When I axed, “Could I see it?” she’d said, “Sure, Sheriff,” an’ trotted it out.
The pi’ture showed Ruthless bein’ stuffed into a squad car by a black an’ white cop team. He was wearin’ those wimpy, plastic handcuffs. Under the pi’ture, it said, “A KKK member is arrested by police.” I ain’t sure I’d want nobody to see me in a situation like that, but then, I ain’t Ruthless. Nor desperate, neither.
I noted the particulars in case I needed a reprint, an’ I thanked Mrs. Ruthless.
Nina ain’t always right.