they'd like it when the snow's high as old Mr. Primo Camera, and the wind's blowing blue-hard, and those sacks come sailing - Ugh! Wham!" In Mother Truitt's profession, Sunday is a workday like any other. On November 15, while she was waiting for the west bound ten-thirty-two, she was astonished to see two ambulances cross the railroad tracks and turn toward the Clutter property. The incident provoked her into doing what she had never done before - abandon her duties. Let the mail fall where it may, this was news. that Myrt must hear at once. The people of Holcomb speak of their post office as "the Fed Building," which seems rather too substantial a title to confer on a drafty and dusty shed. The ceiling leaks, the floor boards wobble, the mailboxes won't shut, the light bulbs are broken, the clock has stopped. "Yes, it's a disgrace," agrees the caustic, some-what original, and entirely imposing lady who presides over this "But the stamps work, don't they? Anyhow, what do I care? Back here in my part is real cozy. I've got my rocker, and a nice wood stove, and a coffee pot, and plenty to read." Mrs. Clare is a famous figure in Finney County. Her celebrity derives not from her present occupation but a previous one - dance-hall hostess, an incarnation not indicated by her appearance. She is a gaunt, trouser-wearing, woolen-shirted, cowboy-booted, ginger-colored, gingery-tempered woman of unrevealed ("That's for me to know, and you to guess") but promptly revealed opinions, most of which are announced in a voice rooster-crow altitude and penetration. Until 1955 she and her late husband operated the Holcomb Dance Pavilion, an enterprise that owing to its uniqueness in the area, attracted from a hundred around a fast-drinking, fancy-stepping clientele, whose behavior, in turn, attracted the interest of the sheriff now and then. “We had some tough times, all right," says Mrs. Clare, reminiscing. "Some of those bowlegged country boys, you give 'em a little hooch and they're like redskins - want to scalp everything in sight. Course, we only sold setups, never the hard stuff itself. Wouldn't have, even if it was legal. My husband, Homer Clare, he didn't hold with it; neither did I. One day Homer Clare - he passed on seven months and twelve days ago today, after a five-hour operation out in Oregon - he said to me, 'Myrt, we've lived all our lives in hell, now we're going to die in heaven.' The next day we closed the dance hall. I've never regretted it. Oh, along at first I missed being a night owl - the tunes, the jollity. But now that Homer's gone, I'm just glad to do my work here at the Federal Building. Sit a spell. Drink a cup of coffee." In fact, on that Sunday morning Mrs. Clare had just poured herself a cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot when Mother Truitt returned. "Myrt!" she said, but could say no more until she had caught her breath. "Myrt, there's two ambulances gone to the Clutters'. "Her daughter said, "Where's the ten-thirty-two?" "Ambulances. Gone to the Clutters' - "
"Well, what about it? It's only Bonnie. Having one of her spells. Where's the ten-thirty-two?" Mother Truitt subsided; as usual, Myrt knew the answer, was enjoying the last word. Then a thought occurred to her. "But Myrt, if it's only Bonnie, why would there be two ambulances? "A sensible question, as Mrs. Clare, an admirer of logic, though a curious interpreter of it, was driven to admit. She said she would telephone Mrs. Helm. "Mabel will know," she said. The conversation with Mrs. Helm lasted several minutes, and was most distressing to Mother Truitt, who could hear nothing of it except the noncommittal monosyllabic responses of her daughter. Worse, when the daughter hung up, she did not quench the old woman's curiosity; instead, she placidly drank her coffee, went to her desk, and began to postmark a pile of letters.
"Myrt," Mother Truitt said. "For heaven's sake. What did Mabel say?"
"I'm not surprised," Mrs. Clare said. "When you think how Herb Clutter spent his whole life in a hurry, rushing in here to get his mail with never a minute to