George D. Schultz

The scene was almost out of a thirties melodrama: Janet wiped at the perspiration, cascading down her forehead and temples. It was no help. The back of her hand and her forearm were just as sweaty. Trying to keep the salty fluids from searing her reddened eyes was proving virtually impossible. Literally impossible. The fact that her shoulder-length blond hair was matted down – and wringing wet, soaked in sweat – was not helping. Why did it have to be so beastly hot?

 Even in Detroit, the temperature had been known to reach into the nineties, from time to time. But, this was the eighth or ninth or tenth day in a row. Ridiculous! Janet, of course, was not alone in her discomfort. Three other women also manned the brutal, steam-spewing, garment pressers – each machine operating at 80 pounds of pressure. Certainly, the never-ending gush of boiling steam had to be every bit as wearying to the other three. The lone air-conditioned oasis, in the entire, massive, washing/drying/pressing area – which comprised three-fourths of the Truesdale’s Laundry & Dry Cleaning building – was a small cubicle of an office, used by Horace Truesdale himself. However, in 1979, Detroit was in the throes of a major recession. Although they were seldom seen in “Motown”, Toyotas, Nissans, Hondas, Audis and a plethora of other foreign cars had invaded the United States. The cost in jobs to southeastern Michigan had been devastating. Ford, General Motors and Chrysler had closed many of their antiquated plants – and had laid-off workers by the thousands. In such an economic wasteland, Horace Truesdale was king! He paid minimum wage to new employees. To all new employees. Even after six months, raises were exceptionally difficult to come by. His employees consistently referred to Truesdale as “Eb” – taken from the well-known “Scrooge” character in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Janet squinted through the blinding perspiration at her watch. It was almost impossible to see the hands. Moisture had collected under the crystal. It seemed to indicate that the time was just shy of 3:00PM. “Two more lousy hours,” she muttered aloud. “Thank God.” As she lifted the pale-blue skirt from the steam presser – to examine her handiwork – Janet saw Mr. Truesdale approaching. He was followed by two other men. Wonderful. Just what I need. Now what did I do? “Mrs. Bolton?” Truesdale’s traditional nasal tone seemed especially irritating. “Mrs. Bolton, these men are here to talk to you.” Janet made a heroic attempt at forcing a smile. It didn’t quite work. The two visitors appeared to be police officers. One, obviously, from the West – as evidenced by the cowboy boots and Stetson five-gallon hat. Even in plain clothes, law enforcement people all seemed to have some sort of special “look” about them.

“Yes, gentlemen?” Janet’s voice was awash with fatigue. “Mister Truesdale,” observed the red-headed man, without the boots and Stetson, “I had no idea it’d be anywhere near this crowded … or this hot … out here. Like we said before, it’d be much better if we could use your office to speak with Mrs. Bolton.” “He’s got that right,” agreed the other stranger, with an emphatic nod. The latter’s dark-blue, western-cut, suit was in stark contrast to the light-grey business suit, worn by the red-headed man. “Out here,” he continued, “is just plain no good.” “Very well,” replied Truesdale, looking as though his best friend had just been murdered. With obvious reluctance, he led Janet and the two men to the tiny enclosure in the far corner. The air-conditioned office was a panacea. By the time the quartet reached the cubicle, both strangers were perspiring profusely. Almost as much as was Janet. Horace Truesdale forced as much of a smile as he was capable, and muttered, “I’ll leave you people here to talk. When, you’re done, please be sure to close the office door. Don’t want to waste the coolness, y’know.” “Yes, Sir,” answered the man in the Stetson. “Be a crime to let this cold air get out there … where those folks are. We’ll be sure and closer ‘er up tight. Thank y’all.” Once Truesdale had left, the westerner turned to Janet and drawled, “Miz Bolton, my name is Deputy Claiborne. Deputy Busch Claiborne.” He produced a badge. “I’m from Tarrant County,” he advised her. “Down in Texas, Ma’am.” “Fort Worth, Mrs. Bolton,” explained the other man with a smile. A warm, reassuring smile. “I’m Detective Francis,” he went on. “Steve Francis. Michigan State Police. Deputy Claiborne, here, is up from Fort Worth … investigating a case. A case … one we think you might be able to help us with. We’d like to … “ “How would I know anything about something going on in Fort Worth?” she asked, impatiently. “I’ve never been there in my life. Nowhere even close.” “Well, Ma’am,” drawled Claiborne, “a fella name of James Bolton has been there. Would that be your husband, Miz Bolton?” The color drained from Janet’s till-then-flushed face. Still reeling from the oppressive heat, that proved to be no simple accomplishment. “Why … why … why, I … I haven’t seen my husband in something like seven years. Eight years, maybe. Uh … well … yes. His name was Jim. James.” She sighed – and almost seemed to deflate. “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” she asked, wearily. “Well, Mrs. Bolton,” began Detective Francis – in his most soothing voice, “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.” “Bad … bad news?” Janet was aware that her voice was rising – in volume and pitch. “Yes, Ma’am,” nodded Claiborne. “There really isn’t any easy way of tellin’ you this, Miz Bolton. Your husband is dead.”