Carried to the Grave and Other Stories

by Leslie Budewitz

  What sort of prayer could an Irish Catholic and a Scot, as Gregory’s name suggested he was, say together over the body of a dead Norwegian? No matter. They were all Americans. Montanans. God’s children.

  She cleared her throat and Gregory bowed his head, hands clasped in front of his chest. “Father in Heaven, we ask you to receive the spirit of Arval Haugen into your hands. To forgive his sins and accept him into the company of the angels.” She paused briefly, wondering if Mr. Gregory or Reverend Haugen believed in angels. “You who listen to the cries of the injured and bereaved, who cares for the orphans . . .” Her words faltered, as she thought of Grace.

  The church door opened. A tall man in a brown wool suit removed his hat and entered.

  “Ma’am,” Daniel Gibson said, a hint of the South in his voice. Her mouth opened and closed without a word. Then he acknowledged the power company manager with a quick nod. “Ivan.”

  She had met Daniel Gibson once, when he’d come into the Mercantile to see Paddy. With the county seat so far away, the residents of Jewel Bay were fortunate, and grateful, to have a resident deputy. Who the two men were who came in behind Deputy Gibson, she couldn’t say. Locals he’d rounded up to assist if needed? She had no idea what might be needed. One man stepped into the small office and a moment later, the electric sconces mounted on the walls began to glow.

  Oh, how she wished Paddy were here. He’d be locking up the Mercantile and heading home, expecting to find her working in the kitchen. He’d worry at her absence, with the band of thieves on the loose. But he knew she was giving lessons; if it got too late, he’d come to the school to fetch her. Dismay over worrying her husband vied with her concern for Grace, and she shuddered.

  “Good of you to come so quickly,” Ivan Gregory said, and Kate was struck by the stiff formality of his tone. What could be the reason? Surely she was imagining things, in the terrible moment.

  “Doc is on his way,” the deputy replied.

  Gregory gestured to the body. Gibson stepped onto the altar and crouched to check for a pulse, then leaned closer to inspect the wound on the dead man’s forehead. Raised the man’s outstretched hand, turned the wrist gently, then laid it down again. Stood and let his gaze move slowly around the room. It stopped at the altar table, continued its circuit, and returned to the table.

  “Where are the candlesticks?”

  They all looked around, as though the missing objects were simply waiting to be noticed.

  “Tall. Silver. Matching pair.” Gibson held one hand about ten inches above the other. “A gift from a parishioner. Most valuable thing in the place, I suspect.”

  “The thieves?” Kate asked, surprised to hear her voice shake. “Could—could they have done this?”

  “You never know what a greedy man will do, Mrs. Murphy, I’m sorry to say,” though Gibson didn’t sound sorry. “You shouldn’t be here. One of my men will take you home. We’ll get a search party going.”

  “I’ll wait for the doctor,” Ivan Gregory said, as much to her as to Daniel Gibson, who did not reply, already discussing plans with his men.

  Kate found herself reluctant to leave. She hadn’t known Arval Haugen well—she didn’t know anyone in town well aside from Paddy. But she’d liked him and was genuinely fond of his daughter. This wasn’t her church—there was no Catholic church in Jewel Bay—but their God was her God, and as Deputy Gibson’s man took her elbow and led her out, she sent a quick prayer upward, asking God to send His comfort and strength to all those in need.

  And His mercy, and justice.

  ∞

  “I can’t take her home with me,” Anne Lang whispered as the two women huddled in the kitchen of the parsonage, the cookstove radiating a warmth Kate’s every bone craved. “Not with Frank . . .”

  The teacher’s younger brother, who lived with her. There was something wrong with him. Kate didn’t know what.

  The deputy’s man had wanted to take Kate straight home, but she’d insisted on coming here. The wagon had barely stopped when the dog bounded past and threw one paw against the front door. Grace had opened it, seen him, and raised her face to Kate. “Where’s Papa? What’s happened?”

  Now Kate glanced at the teacher in her navy skirt and white blouse, blond hair braided on top of her head, her back stiff and her eyes wary. It was Kate who’d found the man, and she who had to break the news.

  “Let’s sit,” Kate said, gesturing to the kitchen table and taking the seat across from the girl. “I’m so sorry, Grace. We don’t know exactly what happened. He—he may have tried to stop some thieves and been attacked. He’s—”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Kate nodded, not trusting her voice. It had never failed her the way it had twice in half an hour. But then, she had never before found a man dead or had to tell his daughter.

  Grace’s eyes filled, but she didn’t cry.

  “Mr. Gregory is with him,” Kate continued. “In the church. Deputy Gibson is starting a search party. You’ll come home with me for the night. There’s a man waiting outside with a wagon.”

  Anne Lang touched the girl’s shoulder. “Go pack your nightgown and clothes for tomorrow.”

  Wordlessly, the girl rose and left the room. Anne sank into the empty chair. “How could such a terrible thing happen? Such a good man, and that poor child.”

  “I lost track of time on our lesson—she’s making such progress. The school was dark when we left. So was the church.”

  “I walked right by it, but I didn’t notice a thing.”

  “Did you see the reverend’s bicycle?” Kate asked. “Against the wall by the front door.” Of no interest to the thieves.

  “No. Best to keep her home tomorrow. Give her a day to let the news sink in.”

  What was she going to do with a grieving eleven-year-old? “Has she no family in the area?”

  “No.” Anne got to her feet. “I’ll be off now. My brother will be wanting supper, if he’s home, though I can’t stomach the idea. Let me know if she needs anything. I’ll talk with the other teachers and students tomorrow.”

  The two women stood, silent. Kate grasped Anne’s hands and they locked eyes. Not quite friends, but not quite strangers, drawn together by tragedy. And by the needs of a young girl.

  Anne left and Kate made her way to the girl’s bedroom. From the doorway, she watched Grace tuck a small pile of clothing into her carryall. Then she took a framed photograph from the top of the oak dresser and slipped it into her bag.

  Her mother? A family portrait?

  “Ready, then?” Kate asked gently, only to see a tear sliding down Grace’s cheek.

  And she folded the sobbing girl into her arms.

  ∞

  Kate’s spirits lifted at the sight of lights in the window of their little log house, a beacon in the gloom. The wagon slowed, the front door opened, and Paddy emerged, summoned by the sounds of wheels and hooves. He was in his shirtsleeves, his suspenders dark against the white shirt, his sandy hair catching the light behind him. Kate didn’t wait to be helped but grabbed her skirt and jumped.

  “Paddy, oh Paddy!” she cried as she ran to him.

  “Slow down, lass. What’s a matter with yeh?” He caught her by the arms and she searched his face. He didn’t know. He looked past her to the man and child in the wagon. “And who’s this?”

  “Oh, Paddy,” she said again, then explained about finding Reverend Haugen dead in his church. Paddy listened, his fair skin paling beneath the freckles, concern in his wide blue eyes. By the time Kate finished her story, their escort had helped Grace down and brought her to them, the child clutching her small bag, the dog beside her. Kate lifted a hand to touch her shoulder, then pulled it back.

  “It’s gotta be them thieves,” the man said. “Daniel Gibson’s getting up a search party.”

  “I’ll get my coat and my rifle,” Paddy said. “If you’ll wait on me a minute or two. Obliged to you for bringing my wife home. And the girl.”

  K
ate led Grace inside, Paddy following.

  “Paddy, no,” Kate said. “You’re not going with them.”

  “I am, lass. They’ll need all the men they can get. The Model T would be faster, but I can’t be sure of the roads where we’ll be going.” He tugged on his coat, then spoke in a low tone. “I’m taking the rifle, but you’ve got the shotgun. And the dog.”

  She’d almost forgotten about the dog.

  “Yeh’ll be all right, you and the girl,” he said.

  Would she? Would they? They had no telephone at home. The closest neighbor was well out of shouting distance. If the thieves were bold enough to strike in town, in daylight, would they target the Murphys, assuming a shopkeeper with a fine new brick building was prosperous, never mind that it was built on borrowed money? Never mind that their cash was locked in the Mercantile’s safe, and that they owned little else of value?

  She almost laughed. Any thief with his wits about him would see this place, barely more than a cabin, and ride on by.

  Daylight, she thought, her mind spinning backwards. Would thieves strike in daylight, so close to the school and homes where they might be seen?

  “We’ll be back before yeh know it,” Paddy said. Then he kissed her on the cheek, picked up his rifle, and was gone.

  Kate stared at the door. Reached out and locked it.

  “Well, then.” She blew out a big breath. The girl hadn’t eaten; she’d been waiting for her father. Kate hadn’t eaten in hours. Wasn’t sure she could keep anything down. Not after seeing the reverend’s vacant eyes, the bloody gash. “You’ll have to sleep on the sofa. It’s a bit scratchy, but we’ll find you a spare quilt. And light the fire, if we need to.”

  “Please, Mrs. Murphy,” Grace said. “May I have a bowl to give Buster some water?”

  “Oh, good heavens. Yes.” Kate led the way to the kitchen, where she filled a good-sized enamelware bowl—small as the place was, at least Paddy had been able to bring running water inside, though he’d never gotten around to bringing the outhouse in. She set the bowl on the floor, and the sound of the dog’s tongue lapping up the water seemed to fill the room.

  A few minutes later, after she’d shown the girl where to put her things and the privy out back, they dished up the supper they’d brought with them, not wanting it to go to waste. Grace cleaned her plate. Kate set hers on the floor for Buster, then put the kettle on. Cut two slices of apple cake.

  What next? School work? Impossible. What else might a child do after school and chores and supper? When Kate had been Grace’s age, she and her sisters had read, quietly or out loud. They’d sketched or sewn. Played the piano and sang. Here, most evenings, she and Paddy talked. He’d tell her about the customers. Who was setting up a homestead or building a barn. Who came in hoping to sell extra produce or wool, or hoping he’d take a lamb in trade. The sewing machine he’d ordered for the doctor’s wife, and where on earth would he find a new delivery man. Her husband could talk the ears off a hollow tree, but she loved every minute, every tidbit, as he told her about Jewel Bay and the logging camps and the steamships that plied Eagle Lake, the farmers nearby, the Indians who crossed the valley.

  But Paddy wasn’t here. She had to figure this one out on her own.

  She poured boiling water into the porcelain teapot and set a glass of milk on the table for Grace. They sat, with their cake.

  “I haven’t gotten used to the quiet yet,” Kate said. “Back home, in Baraboo, I lived with my parents and the sister just above me. My younger sister is attending art school in Chicago, if you can believe that. She’s only eighteen, but so talented.”

  Grace lifted her fork to her mouth, her gaze fixed on Kate. Her eyes were sad, but not afraid, and clearly interested, so Kate went on.

  “My oldest sister, Alice, is married and lives a few blocks from our parents. Her husband is on the railroad, as our father was before he retired. She’s got two little ones and they drop by almost every day. So there is always something going on.”

  “Where’s Baraboo?”

  “In Wisconsin. Not far from Madison, the capital.”

  “My grandmother lives in Chicago.”

  “Oh.” The tea had steeped by now so Kate poured herself a cup, steam from the dark liquid carrying the rich, floral aroma of the Darjeeling her mother had sent with her. Paddy sold a rough, inexpensive brew. He wasn’t convinced yet that more subtle varieties would sell, but she was sure that as the town grew and more ladies settled in the area, they would need to stock a few finer things. “Your father’s mother or your mother’s? We must write and let her know what’s happened. Or telephone her in the morning, from the Mercantile.”

  “My mother’s mother,” Grace said softly. “But she won’t care.”

  Kate was taken aback. Her maternal grandmother, small and Irish and always in black after being widowed at thirty-seven, had lived with them as long as Kate could remember, until her death a few years ago. Her father’s parents had farmed outside of town and she had seen them every Sunday of her life until they too had died, months apart.

  “Do you have other relatives? In Montana, by chance?” Though Anne Lang had thought not.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “We’ll write your grandmother tomorrow,” Kate said. “I’m sure she’ll be deeply saddened.”

  Grace’s jaw tightened and she lowered her eyes. “No. She won’t. She warned my mother against marrying my father. She said he was a dreamer and an idealist who could never support a wife and children. My mother died when I was eight, and my grandmother told my father it was his fault, that he had no one but himself to blame and we were not welcome in her home again. That’s when he decided to move west, and the bishop sent us here.”

  Kate was shocked. How could the woman speak so cruelly? Out of grief and anger, yes, but even so . . . Perhaps she’d softened. But Kate could not say that. She could not raise false hope.

  She leaned forward, a hand on the table. “You are very young to be alone in the world. I believe Deputy Gibson and his men will find your father’s killers and bring them to justice, but that will take time. Meanwhile, you’ll be safe and cared for.”

  Was that enough? It was all she could say, all she could promise, right now.

  Grace set her hands in her lap and lowered her chin. It quivered, and she caught her lower lip with her teeth. Buster leaned against her leg, and she rubbed his boxy head and scratched behind one floppy brown ear.

  Then the dog laid down, the girl picked up her fork and took a bite, and Kate let out her breath.

  She had more questions, but they could wait. She’d as much as promised to keep the girl for now. What Paddy would think, she could scarcely imagine.

  After they’d finished their cake, Kate washed up the dishes. “What did you and your father do in the evenings?”

  “He read, or worked on his sermons. Sometimes I read to him.”

  “Oh, what an excellent idea. Would you like to read to me, while I work on my sewing?”

  Grace’s eyes brightened. “Miss Lang lent me a book of poems. I could read from that.”

  Kate switched on the electric lamp in the front room—she couldn’t pretend the cramped, low-ceilinged room with its log walls was grand enough to call a parlor—and Grace rummaged in her bag for the book. Kate picked up her sewing basket and sat on the sofa beside the girl. Drew out the troublesome tea towel, an elaborate M traced lightly on the creamy white fabric. So graceful, so perfect before she pierced it with her needle. Needlework had never been her talent. Her sister Alice could make the needle sing, but in Kate’s hands—well, it was as if the fabric turned grubby and the stitches crooked almost before they were done.

  “My mother could sew anything. She made all my clothes as well as her own. Papa likes to say—” Grace interrupted herself, swallowed hard, then spoke again. “Papa liked to say there wasn’t anything she couldn’t make, or make prettier with a bit of lace.”

  Kate returned the towel to the basket. “Tell m
e about her.”

  And Grace talked. She talked about her mother’s soft gentle hands and the tenement in Chicago where they lived while her father served the poor. About her father’s determination to make a home for the two of them, serving God and the people of Montana. She talked about school and books she’d read and how hard the piano was and how much she loved it. She talked about the dog. She talked until she fell asleep. Kate slipped off the girl’s shoes and slid her legs onto the sofa, turned out the light, and sat in the kitchen with another cup of tea and the dog and the eddy of her own thoughts swirling like the rushing waters of the Baraboo River until Paddy came home.

  ∞

  The dog lay at Paddy’s stocking feet. Paddy had kept watch when he let the dog out to do his business, making sure he didn’t try to find his way down the hill to the parsonage. But the dog seemed to know this was where he needed to stay, close to Grace.

  “Hide nor hair,” Paddy repeated, cake finished, a fresh cup of tea in front of him. They were going to need a third kitchen chair. Maybe they could bring one from the parsonage. Although it belonged to the church, not to Reverend Haugen. Did the chairs belong to the church, too? Grace had said the bishop sent them here. He would have to be notified and a new minister chosen—she didn’t know how Protestant churches worked. Grace had also mentioned the sexton. Would he notify the bishop?

  “We couldna find a trail from the church, so Gibson led a group down the banks of the Jewel and along the bay. Sent another over to Eagle River.” The town sat above the bay that joined the Jewel River to the big Eagle Lake, not far from the outlet of the larger Eagle River. “I joined up with Ivan Gregory and Thaddeus London and another Scot, and we scoured the lakeshore. Came across a camp of Piegan, smoking their fish this side of the big river.”