If It Is April

by Edward A. Stabler

  “We ain’t armed,” Billy said, tilting to mitigate the strain on his shoulder, “and we ain’t here to steal nothing. This boat belonged to our kin. We’re just trying to find out what happened to ‘em.”

  “The moonshiners?” said the voice behind Billy. “They’re dead, ain’t they?” He released Billy’s wrist and spun his arm, pushing him toward Tyler. The man leaned back against the closed door and lowered his knife to hip level. “I wasn’t looking to hurt you none. Just wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Neither was we,” Billy said, shaking the numbness out of his arm.

  Tyler waved out the flame as the match burned toward his fingers.

  “Light another,” the man said. Tyler did, and the man pocketed his knife and slipped past the brothers to the shelf on the front wall, where he retrieved an oil lamp. He put it on the fold-down table, pulled out two scarred wooden stools, and sat down on the lower bunk. Gesturing to Billy’s bread and meatloaf, he said “if you fellers are fixing to have dinner, I reckon you don’t want to eat in the dark.”

  Tyler lit the lamp and the Emorys slid the stools away from the bunk and sat down. “If I didn’t know better,” Billy said, “I might of thought we was guests on your boat. Who are you and how long you been camping here?”

  The man said his name was Henry Zimmerman and he’d spent the last three nights on the scow. Billy sized him up: wisps of graying hair stretched back over a scalp flecked with age spots; faded blue eyes set into sinking skin etched with wrinkles; sinewed hands and forearms that must once have been powerful, now dangling idly between his knees. And only half a ring finger on his left hand.

  “You called our kin moonshiners,” Billy said. “You ever meet Kevin or Tom Emory? Been on this boat before the flood? How did you know they was dead?”

  “I probably seen this boat going one way or the other,” Zimmerman said, “last week or last year. Been around the canal long enough to see just about everything. Don’t think I met your boys, but I knowed a little about ‘em. Got a taste of what they was selling a week ago, when I was at a card game with one of their customers. He drownded a couple days later in the flood, same as them.”

  “The boat captain from Williamsport,” Billy said. “Cy Elgin.”

  “I reckon we both lost a good customer when he went in the water.”

  “We lost a lot more than that!” Tyler said.

  “You mean the whiskey money?” Zimmerman said. “Did it fall in the river with your boys?”

  “Kevin and Tom was growed men, not boys,” Billy growled. “And since it sounds like you waltzed on board their boat as soon as it washed up, maybe you got some idea of how they drownded.”

  “Like I said,” Zimmerman replied, “I never met ‘em, just tasted their whiskey. They drownded without my help.”

  “Then maybe you got an idea what happened to what they was carrying,” Tyler said.

  “I expect they rolled it onto a truck down in Georgetown,” Zimmerman said. “Probably burning holes in a couple hundred tongues by now.”

  “That ain’t what he meant!” Billy said. “We’re looking for two things Kevin Emory always kept his eyes and hands on. First is a metal toolbox with a grip handle like a suitcase on top. Second is a pocket ledger with leather covers. Could be the ledger is inside the box, and Kevin always kept the box closed and locked. So we got to find the keys as well. The sheriff swears they wasn’t on Kevin’s body when he come out of the river.”

  “But that don’t signify because someone must of lifted Tom’s knife,” Tyler added.

  “So maybe someone did the same for the toolbox and the keys before Kevin went in the water,” Billy said.

  Zimmerman furrowed his brow and leaned forward. “You saying they was killed first? Then dumped in the river when the flood come?”

  “We ain’t saying one way or the other,” Billy answered. “But if they wasn’t… if the sheriff is right and they flipped a canoe in high water, then that toolbox should of been in this cabin when you come on board the scow. So maybe you took it.”

  Zimmerman smiled. “If I done that, how was I going to open it, seeing as I never took the keys from your man Kevin? It ain’t like I got the box hidden somewhere on board. Look around, it ain’t here. So if I took it and put it somewhere safe, why would I sleep here the last few nights, knowing somebody was going to come looking for them fellers and their money one of these days?”

  “Maybe you come back to look for the keys,” Tyler said.

  “That don’t take three days,” Zimmerman countered.

  “I need to think about it,” Billy said. “Can’t figure all the angles on an empty stomach.” He took the bread out of its sack and unwrapped the meatloaf. Tyler unfolded his pocket knife and cut slices of both.

  “Damn, we should of filled that cask in hatch 5,” Billy said, looking around for something to drink.

  “If you need help,” Zimmerman said in an amused voice. “I’ll hold the lamp for you.”

  Billy ignored the offer. “You said you wouldn’t be here if you lifted Kevin’s toolbox. Maybe that’s right. But then why are you here?”

  “It’s a good spot,” Zimmerman said. “Off the road and quiet. I got customers up and down the canal, same as Cy Elgin and your kin.”

  “What are you selling?”

  “Heroin,” Zimmerman answered, watching Tyler’s eyes widen. “You buying?”

  “Never tried it,” Billy said. “Don’t see the need.”

  “Maybe you will someday,” Zimmerman said, smiling again.

  Billy found forks and two chipped plates in the cupboard and the Emorys refocused their attention on the meatloaf and bread, which they devoured in a matter of minutes.

  “Sounds like you been to see the bodies of your kin,” Zimmerman said when the men were done chewing. “You taking ‘em back home?”

  Billy nodded, still swallowing the last morsels. “Tomorrow at noon,” he croaked.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Washington County,” Tyler said, happy to contribute. “South Mountain.”

  “Well seeing as it’s your boat now, I’d be willing to keep an eye on it for you,” Zimmerman said. “Make sure no one decides to tear it up for scrap wood or walk off with the stove. I reckon you’ll want to pull this bucket home once they refill the canal. Shouldn’t be more than a couple months.”

  “I reckon we ain’t in position to stop you from squatting here,” Billy said. “We still got a barrel in hatch 5 with some whiskey left in it. If you can scare off the preachers and the police, that might be a good thing for business. Ours and yours.”

  “I’ll move my blanket to the hay-house tonight,” Zimmerman said, “so you fellers can have the bunks. Meantime I think we could use a nip, so let’s fill up one of them casks.”

  He rose from the bunk, plucked the lamp from the table, and led the Emorys up to the stern deck and around to hatch 5. Minutes later they’d reconvened in the cabin with a few fingers of whiskey poured into battered tin cups that Zimmerman pulled from the cupboard. Billy felt his eyes water as he sipped the family product.

  “Don’t sound like you’re going to find that toolbox tomorrow on your way to get the bodies,” Zimmerman said. “You going to come back and look some more?”

  Billy exhaled a long whiskey-vapored breath. “Probably not us,” he said. “But somebody is coming back. If you got it, he’ll find out and track you down.”

  Zimmerman cracked an involuntary smile. “Then I reckon I got nothing to worry about.”

  Billy thought things through out loud. “The boat was tied up at Swains Lock before the flood. Jess Swain told us that, showed us the snapped-off tree it was moored to. So whatever gone wrong for Kevin and Tom, it must of happened there. And Jess and the sheriff both said Cy Elgin was staying in the lockhouse with his sister and kid brother when the flood hit.”

  “Well if Cy Elgin done in your cousins and stole their money, you ain’t going to get much out of him now. Unless he left that t
oolbox in the lockhouse.”

  Billy rubbed his chin. “We should of asked Jess Swain about that.”

  “Jess didn’t come back to his lock until after the flood,” Zimmerman said. “Meanwhile all them Elgins was in the lockhouse.”

  “The sheriff said the kid brother took the mules to high ground when he heared ‘em braying in the middle of the night,” Tyler said.

  “That’s a big job for a young boy,” Billy said. “I don’t see him lugging a heavy metal box along with him.”

  “If the kid done that, Cy and the sister must of been gone already,” Zimmerman said, “while the water was starting to come up. Seems like you got three men drownded and one person that ain’t been accounted for. She might know what happened.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Billy said grimly after another sip. “There was a fourth man come out of the water, and he’s kin too. Lee Fisher, cousin to our dad, same as Kevin and Tom.”

  Zimmerman shook his head solemnly. “Lee Fisher. Ain’t he the boathand that was keeping an eye on Charlie Pennyfield’s lock? Young feller.”

  “Could be. Pennyfield Lock ain’t too far from Seneca,” Billy said.

  “Cy Elgin told me about him,” Zimmerman continued. “Said Lee was sniffing around his sister Katie, and Cy wasn’t too happy about it. Probably he was too honest for Cy’s taste.”

  “That sounds like Lee,” Tyler said.

  “I could see Cy and your cousins tipping out of a canoe after a night of drinking,” Zimmerman said. “But that don’t square for Lee Fisher.”

  “The sheriff said Lee wasn’t drownded when he washed up,” Billy said. “Had his neck slashed and bled to death first.”

  Zimmerman took a slow sip and leaned back against the hull above the bunk. “Then I guess you got another reason to find Katie Elgin.”

  Chapter 4

  Breakfast

  Saturday, April 5, 1924

  Jake woke up to the smell of bacon. He shuffled barefoot to the bedroom door and opened it a few inches. The door across the landing at the top of the narrow stairs was opened wide, and he could see the other bedroom was empty. The girl must be downstairs cooking breakfast. Jesus. He’d half expected her to vanish overnight, as suddenly as she’d appeared. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and started getting dressed.

  So far his return to Edwards Ferry wasn’t unfolding the way he’d expected. Tying his shoes, he visualized the simple tasks he’d been asked to accomplish over the course of a few days. Clear flood debris and tackle any simple repairs to the lock and lockhouse. Make sure Bertie and Gladys survived the flood. Get them fed and watered, get their tack together. Fix the mule cart in the basement – it needed a new bench seat and footrest – and use it to bring back more food for the mules. And then collect the things Emmert didn’t want to leave untended at Edwards Ferry for the next two months, like his smoked meats and photographic equipment, and cart them to Sharpsburg. Even though Gladys was past her prime now, forty miles on the towpath over two days should have been a comfortable stroll.

  Instead Gladys was wounded and lame, and the mysterious April was making herself at home in the lockhouse. Jake hoped she would tell him her story today. He had let her stay and left her alone overnight, so maybe she’d start trusting him soon. What was she trying to hide?

  Downstairs he saw that April had finished cooking the bacon and was making pancakes on the coal stove.

  “I see you haven’t forgotten how to feed yourself,” he said.

  She turned and brushed a strand of hair clear of her eyes, smiling for a second. “Would you rather I had? And this isn’t all for me.”

  Jake helped himself to one of the bacon strips drying on the counter. “It’s my father’s food,” he said. “You should be thankful that any of it’s for you.”

  “Who’s your father?” she said, turning to him with an innocent expression and a half-cooked pancake on her spatula.

  Jake rolled his eyes. “Emmert Reed. He works for the Canal Company and this is his lockhouse. He sent me here to see how it came through the flood.”

  April laughed as she flipped the pancake back onto the pan. “You told me that yesterday.”

  “Very funny. So you remember yesterday. Congratulations.” Jake exhaled through pursed lips, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table. “Maybe the rest of your memory was miraculously restored overnight. Let’s check. What’s your name?”

  “April.”

  “Ha ha.” Jake tried to sound solemn, like an investigator. “Where do you live?”

  “Here?”

  “Where does your family live?”

  She harvested two pancakes from the stove and turned to face him again. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have parents? Do you have brothers or sisters? What are their names?”

  April shook her head and poured more disks of batter in the pan.

  “How did you get here? What’s the first thing you remember?”

  “I was standing on a rock at the top of a ridge,” she said, staring out the kitchen window. “Looking down at the river. It had swallowed everything. I folded a piece of paper into an airplane and threw it out toward the water.”

  “What was on the paper?”

  April shrugged, returned her attention to the stove, and flipped the pancakes. She’d tied her hair back and Jake found himself staring at blond wisps dangling against her neck. When she carried a plate of pancakes to the table, Jake doused the whole stack with maple syrup and took a fork to it.

  “Maybe the paper had instructions for whoever found you,” he said between bites. “My name is, I live at, please drive me home or telephone this number. But you’d forgotten how to read so you threw it away.”

  “I can read,” April said with an edge to her voice. She grabbed a small kerosene can from the windowsill. “Highly flammable. Handle with care.” She held the can out as if she might use it and stared at Jake. “And I don’t think there’s telephone service around here.”

  Jake backed down. “Our phone back in Sharpsburg ain’t working half the time anyway, so forget about it here,” he muttered as April turned back to the stove. “I’d settle for power. But only a couple of the lockhouses got it. My father never pushed the company for a line.”

  He tried to return the conversation to April’s path to Edwards Ferry. “You said you were standing on a ridge above the river. And you threw a paper airplane into the water during the flood. That can’t be just anyplace.”

  He visualized the towpath he’d walked so often years ago. Along most of it, an apron of woods or meadow sloped gradually toward the river over the distance you could throw a stone. But in some places the ground was steeper.

  “Below here you got the cliffs at Blockhouse Point. That’s about ten miles downriver, between Seneca and Pennyfield Lock. Heading west you might be talking about Point of Rocks. That’s the shoulder of Catoctin Mountain, seventeen miles upstream. After the flood passed, you could have walked here from either place in a day.”

  April piled the stiffened bacon strips onto a plate, then slid her pancakes out of the pan into a stack alongside them. She set the plate on the table beyond Jake’s reach and sat down.

  “I guess I had enough pancakes,” Jake said tentatively, hoping he’d be offered another. But April drizzled syrup over the entire stack and cut into it with her fork. Feeling slighted, Jake poured water from a pitcher on the table into two glasses, pushed one toward her, then reached past the glass to pluck a strip of bacon from her plate. As he wondered whether April might be telling the truth, he poached a second strip, then a third.

  “There’s more batter if you’re still hungry,” April said, slicing into her dwindling stack. “You just need to mix it up from scratch. Flour, egg, baking powder, what’s left of the milk in the icebox is still good. I’m sure you remember how to make pancakes.”

  Jake frowned. “It’s been a while since I had to cook for myself.”

  “So you let your wife handle all the cooking?
” April said. “Or maybe your mother?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” Jake said gruffly, getting up to put a kettle on the stove for coffee. “I never been married. Had a girlfriend in Baltimore but she turned her back on me.”

  “Because of your charming manners?”

  “Because I went to prison.”

  Jake saw April’s hazel eyes narrow as if she were reappraising him. “You don’t look like a criminal,” she said after a long pause. “More like a critter that lost a fight. Maybe an otter that caught a fish but an osprey came along and stole it.”

  Jake’s attempt to think up a rebuttal unraveled as he considered how apt this characterization actually was. He settled for snatching her last strip of bacon.

  April ignored him, finished her pancakes, and licked the syrup from her fork. “How long were you in jail?”

  “A year.”

  “I guess that means you’re not a killer. What did you do?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” Jake said. “What are you hiding?”

  “That’s not the same question. But since you think it is, I’ll play along. I’m not hiding anything. Maybe I might if I could remember anything before the flood, but I can’t. So what are you hiding?”

  Jake got up and checked the kettle, demonstrating the simplicity of his motives. He spooned Emmert’s instant coffee powder into two mugs. “Nothing to hide,” he said. “I served my time.”

  “Fine,” April countered. “I believe you. Like you should believe me. Then why were you in prison?”

  He picked up her recent analogy. “I told a story to a lot of fishermen. Said if you give me a couple perch, I’ll give you back a big rockfish. Didn’t realize I was working for the osprey and there wasn’t any rockfish.”

  “You don’t seem like a fisherman either. They move slow and talk slow. You act like you got coiled springs in your pockets. And your hair’s too short and your skin’s too pale. Tell me what you really did.”

  Jake sipped his coffee carefully to avoid getting burned. April had her hands around her own mug now and looked like she wasn’t going to let him off the hook. He figured he might as well tell her.