Quiet Dell: A Novel (43 page)

“You’re sure you want him understanding what he reads about Powers?”

“He’s a perceptive boy.”

“All the more reason he should be doing sums in class, and going ice skating.”

“The world is as it is, Sheriff Grimm, and I am here to guide him. If justice ensues, he may feel he played a small part.”

“It is your affair, Miss Thornhill. I’ll leave a dictionary for you at the reception desk.” He paused. “I want to tell you, now that it’s certain, that Powers will be charged with five counts of murder, but prosecuted for the murder of Dorothy Lemke.”

“Only for Lemke?”

“The evidence against him is circumstantial, and most overwhelming in her case. But the Eicher murders cannot be mentioned in court, except as they pertain to method and motive in Lemke’s death.”

“The Eichers will not be mentioned?” For a moment, she could not catch her breath.

“They will be mentioned indirectly. Morris will get it in, but the jury will be instructed to disregard any statement concerning them, in coming to a verdict.” He leaned toward her. “Powers can only hang once.”

“Will he?”

“He will. The state will see him hung.”

“The world should know exactly what he did,” Emily said.

“There’s no need. I must ask you to maintain confidence in that matter.” He nodded, unsmiling, over her head at the waiter, who set plates before them. He waited, and continued. “We have numerous inquiries from relatives of missing women who suspect Powers, convinced they recognize his photograph. Pure supposition. The Lemke case is strongest.”

Emily looked at the food, her heart pounding. She thought of Hart Eicher, resisting. “This myth of the deadly ladies’ man he no doubt enjoys, the fame he will retain . . .”

“He’ll retain nothing; he will be executed and cease to exist. You don’t look well. Are you faint?” He took a slim flask from his suit jacket pocket and poured a bit of brandy in her coffee. “Drink it. You’re as pale as this tablecloth.”

She sipped it, and pushed the food away. “Perhaps there should be a hell, for some offenses.”

“Do you want some air?”

“I’m sorry. I’m all right. It’s unprofessional to be . . . so angry.”

“Is it? I don’t think so. You found Drenth, and his record. I knew you would.”

“Yes.”

“Miss Thornhill, how did you know the doll was in the car, and exactly where?”

“I don’t know. One gets hunches that are not always correct. I thank you for acting on what I told you.” She must get word to Eric. Charles O’Boyle need not attend the trial.

Grimm took a small parcel from the chair beside him. “I suppose it’s a theft of sorts, from the people, but it seems a restoration as well. Only the Lemke case will be tried, and I don’t want the child’s doll to stay in a box of state’s evidence. I consider it personal property, and return it to you.”

“That is her doll?”

“Yes.”

“It can’t be used as evidence?”

“It cannot. Will you take it?”

They stood, and he gave it into her hands.

•   •   •

Emily let herself into her room to see Duty sitting on her bed, and a carefully stacked room service tray on the bureau. “Good. You’ve had lunch, and a walk, I’m sure.” She put her valise beside the dog and went to Mason’s room. “How are you getting on?”

“Finished with this morning’s clippings.”

“Mason, we should go to the park. Do you ice skate?”

“We used to, my mother and me, along the stream, with blades tied to our boots. She taught me to skate a circle.”

“Did she? Hart Eicher loved skating, by the worn look of his skates. I brought them with me—I was given some of the children’s possessions when the Eicher estate was sold last summer.”

“I could try them,” Mason said.

“I don’t mind renting you skates, Mason. I shall have to rent my own. And Hart was a bit huskier than you—”

“It would be good to use them. We always used what we had.”

Of course they did, thought Emily, and took the skates from her closet.

“They feel right, I think,” Mason said, trying them on. He stood, the skates laced. “But I never wore ice skates before, like these.”

Emily knelt to feel the hard toes and worn leather. Mason was small for his age. Perhaps he would hit a growth spurt and catch up to his feet, for the skates fit. “Goodness,” she said, “they fit nicely. And they can sharpen the blades at the rental kiosk.”

“Would he mind, though?” Mason looked up at her. “Mind someone using his skates.”

“I’m not sure those who are gone still think of such things. And you are caring for Hart’s dog, that he loved so. Surely he’d be pleased if you use his skates. I’ll rent a pair, and we’ll give it a try, shall we?” She was putting her desk to rights.

“Look, Duty is following you. He thinks you brought him something from lunch.” Mason nodded at the dog, who stood by her, holding in his mouth the parcel Grimm had given her.

“Duty! You took that from my valise. It is not a toy!” Of course, she thought, it was a toy, and very familiar to Duty.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“It’s— Well, I’ll show you later. Let me know when you’re ready and we’ll”—she took the parcel from the floor—“go out.” Duty followed Mason back to his room. She put the doll into her bureau; she could not bring herself to unwrap the parcel and searched instead among her papers for Annabel Eicher’s notebook. The typescript “A Play for Christmas” was here, from the estate sale. She was sure it mentioned the doll. In their first August interview, hadn’t Charles O’Boyle said the doll was in the play? Here it was, listed among
The Players
:
The Grandmother—Mrs. Pomeroy (voiced by Annabel Eicher).

Emily looked through the pages. The story had to do with baby birds saved in a shoe, and the end was a Christmas carol.

Christmas would come, even to this place.

“I’m ready,” Mason said. He stood in the doorway, holding his winter coat, scarf, hat.

Emily looked at him and knew she must take him with her, and fight to do so, if the father objected.

“Are we going?”

She met his pleased gaze. “Yes, only not quite yet.”

“Duty, do you smell a treat in there?” Mason put his coat on her bed and leaned over the dog, who sat by her bureau.

“Mason, a rag doll that belonged to Annabel Eicher is in that drawer. It was returned to me today. I don’t see how it’s possible that Duty knows, or smells a scent, when the doll has been sealed up for so many months.”

“Should we give it to him?”

“I don’t know, Mason.” She stood and moved to the foot of the bed. “But do, please, take it out of the drawer and unwrap it.”

Carefully, Mason took the parcel and put it on her bed. He withdrew the shrouded doll, which was wrapped in white cloth tied with twine. Mason slipped the twine aside and opened the cloth.

“So,” Emily said, “this is Mrs. Pomeroy.”

The small rag doll was seven or eight inches long, with cloth limbs, sewn-on features, yarn hair. The dress was muslin, once a shade of pink, worn very soft. The pinafore had been white. A scrap of round gold braid wrapped the waist, like a belt. Felt sewn to the feet, meant to suggest shoes, was nearly worn away.

Emily smoothed the doll’s dress and picked it up. The back, and the cloth hands and feet, were stained dark; it must have fallen or lain on a muddy surface before Annabel pushed it deeply into the crease of the backseat. The face and the front of the dress were only slightly discolored, and looked almost as they must have appeared last July, on the journey to Quiet Dell.

“You said Duty ran after them.” Mason knelt to lift Duty and his basket onto the bed. “Dogs remember a long time, in their way.”

“I suppose they do.” Emily put Mrs. Pomeroy in a corner of the basket, and the dog lay down, smelling the doll as though to be certain, and curled near, one paw upon it.

“Maybe he was still trying to find them,” Mason said, “and now he thinks he has.”

“Let’s hope so,” Emily said. “Shall we leave him to rest, and walk to the skating pond?” She turned to the window. “It’s a lovely, fleecy snow. The wind has picked up but the sun is shining.”

Together, they went to look. Snow fell steadily through the bright air, blanketing streets and sidewalks, the hotel awning, the long dark curves of parked cars. Snow layered merchants’ signs and the limbs of trees, dusting passersby who, glancing up, wet their eyes and lips, and hurried on.

•   •   •

Annabel likes to dart about after the gentleman with the luggage, in and out of the elevator, and follow him when he pushes the cart to stop at numbered doors. She knocks when he knocks, races to the end of the corridor and back before anyone answers, whirls into the room before him. She might pass through one wall and another, into the air along the windy streets, or see him wheel the rattling cart to the elevator and dash inside, her hand upon the cart. She fancies he knows she’s there, for he hums the same hymn every time or whistles it low until the doors open. Duty, their last day home, lunged at the pantry door and wriggled through, racing for their scent and the sharp, silencing boot, but Emily has brought Mrs. Pomeroy to him at last.

Annabel must see. She looks down at the saved bundle, so small on Emily’s big white bed. The boy bends to unwrap the cloth; Annabel puts her hands in his, almost touching, feeling. Mrs. Pomeroy is changed, and muddy on her back, but no one must wash her; the smell Duty wants is on her dress, and the cord must stay round her. Annabel must leave her, for the darkening road at Quiet Dell is cold now, the ruts and puddles frozen dry. Snow has filled the holes and rushes along the highway into town.

Annabel loves the clean cold snow and fierce wind; she pulls the storm with her, circling the hotel, blinding streets and passersby, filling the empty alley. The snow is fugue and counterpoint, a contrapuntal
pounding; she plays
pianissimo, staccato, forte, glissando;
the gusting wind is a deep broad phrase, and Grandmother accompanies her right-handed, tossing away the falling pages.
Da capo,
she nods, turning and whirling; she sets the metronome’s
tick tick
and whispers, over the hours and days below,
diminuendo.

“Yes!” said the child. . . . “Home, for good and all. Home, forever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be . . . home’s like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you’re to be a man!”

—Charles Dickens,
A Christmas Carol

The trial would begin in three days. William and Eric were flying to Clarksburg with Chicago journalists this afternoon. The snows had stopped last week, and runnels of melting ice were heard in the streets, but storms were forecast.

“It’s snowing,” said Mason, beside her at the window. “But not much.”

He was learning to sense her preoccupations. “Yes,” Emily said. The glowering skies and errant flakes were mere foreshadowing.

Mason took a conversational tone. “Mr. Malone and Mr. Lindstrom—do they ice skate?”

“Oh yes, and both well, I’d wager. You improve daily, Mason, but they shall have to be patient with me.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m a bit nervous that they arrive. They’ll both stay here at the Gore. I told you that Mr. Lindstrom has worked closely with me on this case—we’ve been to Clarksburg twice before. He’s rather dashing and quite droll. Do you know that word? It means, to be funny in a quick, understated way. Useful for a journalist. Eric grew up privileged, and has every confidence.”

“Did he go to a good school?”

“Oh yes, several of them.” Emily looked down at him. “Everyone needn’t be droll, Mason. You would do well at a good school. You are so clever. Plenty of dull boys go to good schools.”

“Then why are they there?”

She laughed. “They have families with money and reputation, or perhaps just money, while the boys with no money, with manners
and a connection, are often smartest and work hardest.” She could tell he was marking her words. “Some use privilege to do good, Mason.”

“I read about Mr. Malone in the clippings,” Mason said.

The wind shook the glass in the panes. They both felt it and stepped closer to the window. The snow was heavier so quickly, blown and whirling. The clock in the room chimed three.

Emily clasped her hands. The boy had likely heard country people rail against bankers, as well they should. “Mr. Malone, as you know from the newspapers, does good.”

“Is he . . . droll?” Mason asked.

“No, actually,” Emily said. She felt nearly blinded with anxiety, and peered into the snow. They should have landed. They should be at the hotel. She turned away from the window and sat, facing the door. “Mason, why not tidy your work? I know Eric will want to read through it, perhaps tomorrow after he’s rested.”

“You don’t want me to wait with you?”

“No. Go along now, and shut your door, so that I won’t bother you.” She thought of her plane ride to Iowa in perfect summer skies and could not imagine suspension in such furious air. She must simply concentrate on bringing William to her through miles of tumbling cloud. She heard the wind and the silvery ping of sleet. Mason was in his room and then back, his hand on her arm as though rousing her.

“Someone’s knocking. At my door.”

“Your door?” Of course, William knew she had both rooms. She stood and walked to the adjoining room, Mason beside her like a shadow, and composed herself, hearing the soft repetitive knock. She opened the door wide, stunned with relief.

He’d come directly to her, moisture sparkling on his coat, his bags on the carpet beside him.

“Mr. Malone,” she said, and felt herself in his arms. It was in her eyes, she knew.

“Miss Thornhill.” He inclined his head, as though to a stranger on the street, and looked at Mason. “And who is this?”

“This is Mason Phillips, my archivist.”