Quiet Dell: A Novel (36 page)

Wilko Drenth, pious immigrant farmer of near Fairbank, Iowa, recognizes the picture of Harry F. Powers in a newspaper as his son, Harm Drenth. Looking on is Drenth’s son-in-law, Evert Schroder . . .

—
Ames Daily Tribune,
September 5, 1931

A curious trait shown by Drenth was remembered by H. H. Delthouse, who said that Drenth had once borrowed a watch from his brother and had taken it apart and put it back together again before returning it.

—
Mason City Globe-Gazette,
September 11, 1931

Middle-aged Women Were Favorites: Officers point to the fact that Powers picked middle-aged women as his “prospects” because they were susceptible to his amours. Most of the women with whom he corresponded and who later became his murder victims had passed or were nearing the “fat and forty” age women dread.

—
The Clarksburg Telegram,
September 12, 1931

Starving: “There are more people starving for love and companionship than there are starving for bread,” red-inked the American Friendship Society of Detroit, which offered “
ABSOLUTELY FREE
” lists of wealthy widows to anybody who had the price of a two-cent stamp. In four years the “society” had collected more than $10,000 in “dues.”

—“We Make Thousands Happy,”
Time
magazine, September 14, 1931

Discovery of another alias for Powers: Joe Gildaw. Found on a photo of him inscribed in his hand, “Taken Aug. 14, 1924.” . . . At the time he was writing to a girl, Anna, at Vanderbilt PA. . . . An acknowledgment of the photo was also found, addressed to Joe Gildaw, Miller SD. Found in the trunk also was a photo of an Illinois woman who had left her home two years ago to marry a man in Iowa and who has not been heard of since.

—
The Clarksburg Telegram,
September 15, 1931

September 4, 1931

He’d stood on a balcony in Mexico, looking down into the square, and made himself acknowledge that he would never see them again. There would be no long table decorated with thistles and pasteboard turkeys at Thanksgiving, no candles at Christmas, or the miniature Yuletide village the girls so adored. He would not bring the children here, to this coastal town of beaches and sun-drenched plazas, after his marriage to Anna.

She’d told him nothing; she knew he would never have allowed her to enter into such folly. He could not blame himself for anything but too much absence. She’d pretended to consider, had agreed to discuss their plans in mid-July, when he was back in Chicago. In that alternate world, they announced their engagement in September, married at Thanksgiving, embarked on a family wedding trip to Mexico during the children’s Christmas holiday. Annabel stood beside him on the balcony, flying a small kite shaped like a bird; Anna kept Grethe close beside her in the crowded square below, shopping for the lace mantillas young girls wore to church. Hart stood near, at the next stall, where boys sold painted maracas made of gourds.

He knew, of course, where men found men, which small tequila bars to frequent, where to have dinner in outdoor cafés after dark, drinking sweet, bitter coffee by the fountains. He avoided what
he knew and went, day by day, to the many small churches near the hotel. He lit candles for the children, for Anna, reciting their names like a rosary. The sound of the coins in the offering boxes, the little flames leaping up on the small white candles, were his only ceremony.

He arrived home, unknowingly, the day of the memorial service, and read the notice in the
Tribune
. He would not, could not attend, and was unprepared for the complete desolation he felt on entering his apartment. He could not sleep. He decided to ask Dunnegan for a transfer and leave Chicago. New York, perhaps, somewhere they had never been, where no one would speak of them. His service had taken numerous messages from reporters who wanted to exploit his connection to the case. He’d returned one call, to Eric Lindstrom, late last night.

“Lindstrom? It’s Charles O’Boyle.”

“You’re back then. May I see you?”

“I’m just back. On the day of the service, actually. I could not . . . attend.”

“Of course not. I’m just back myself, tonight, from Iowa. We found Powers’ father; we know who Powers is. I have a great deal to tell you.” He paused. “The Eicher estate is to be sold tomorrow. The contents of the house. Allow me to drive you there, to retrieve your things.”

“All of it sold, tomorrow?”

“I know William Malone would like to speak with you, about anything you want withheld from sale, that you might want to purchase. The Eicher possessions belong to the bank now. Do you want his exchange?”

Charles took down the number. “It seems late to phone him. I would like one of her paintings, and, her desk. It should not go to a stranger.”

“You need only leave a message, on his service. And may I come by for you tomorrow? You’ll need transport, for those things you’ve stored.”

“You’re certain you don’t mind?”

“Quite certain. I’ll be at your building at seven, parked by the curb.” He paused, as though to say more. “Good night, then.”

Charles found himself listening, after the click of disconnection, to the air on the line.

September 4, 1931

Emily wanted to arrive early at the Eicher house, though she’d barely slept. She rode the 7:00
A.M
. streetcar from the Loop, the very line Heinrich Eicher had undoubtedly taken daily from Park Ridge to Chicago. It was a mere half hour. Duty sat quietly in her valise, which she held on her lap; she kept her hand upon him, and watched the glint of the rails race past. Trees overhanging the streetcar line had begun to turn yellow and orange, halfway up their branches. She welcomed autumn, and winter’s advance; this summer must pass. There must be storms to blow away the images she could not outdistance, and the memory of Iowa’s unrelenting sunlight.

Eric agreed not to include for publication the revelation of Drenth’s near drowning as a boy, or Wilko Drenth’s words, sworn or prayed in Dutch. They were not public statements, for he’d no idea Eric understood. The boy was dangerous. His name did not mean “harm” in the father’s tongue, but the father knew: the child liked to hurt things, watch them hurt, he felt no loyalty or guilt. He did not love his father, or anyone.

Many believed drowning an easy death, a fast, rushed cessation: enclosure, drifting down.

Animals left their damaged young on the ground, in the open, intuiting difference, danger to the herd not visible to the eye. She remembered Annabel’s sign:
Graveyard for Animals
. Perhaps it was still there. The bird buried below was bones and dust.

She unfolded her copy of the
Tribune,
delivered to her door each day by six. Eric had filed the follow-up on Powers’ Wisconsin imprisonment: