Carried to the Grave and Other Stories

by Leslie Budewitz

  Kate believed her. And she did not believe Frank Lang had killed Arval Haugen. Not over his sister, and not over a useless pair of silver candlesticks.

  She stood and crossed to the stove, where she picked up a heavy wooden spoon and stirred the soup, its fragrance filling the tiny space. Besides, if Frank Lang had taken the candlesticks, wouldn’t he have hidden them more carefully?

  Had the killer wanted the single candlestick to be found? Why? And why leave the other in Ivan Gregory’s woodpile? So it could be found, too?

  She used the edge of the spoon to pry bits of ham off the bone.

  One thing she knew for sure: something, and someone, in Jewel Bay was not as it appeared to be.

  ∞

  “Ah, Kate. You know I love your big heart. But she belongs with her people,” Paddy said as they sat at the kitchen table after supper. Grace had taken Buster outside, then settled down to read in the front room.

  “Even if they don’t want her? What will happen if that bitter old woman dies? Paddy, think about the dangers a young girl, a young woman on her own faces in this world. At best, she’d be farmed out as a servant and at worse . . . I’ll find her a home myself before I commit her to that fate.”

  “We’ve got our own future to think about. Our own family.”

  “You always say that the Irish make room at the table, even if it means one less mouthful for those already there.”

  Paddy pressed his lips together. “Aye, lass, yeh got me there. But it’s a big decision. Let’s not rush it.”

  Maybe he was right. She wasn’t sure anymore.

  Not until after both Paddy and Grace had gone to bed was Kate able to sit with a cup of tea and the letter from Alice, nearly forgotten in the confusion created by Mrs. Swensen’s screed and the conversation she’d overheard between Paddy and James Peterman.

  My dearest Kate, Alice wrote in a strong, clear hand. How wrenching to find that poor man. After expressing her sympathy for his daughter and concern for Kate, she assured Kate that she would not reveal “the lurid details” to their mother.

  Never hesitate, little sister, to unburden yourself to me. Even the heaviest load is lighter when shared, and you are wise to grasp that there will be matters you do not want to share with your husband, good man that he is, for fear of worrying him.

  Alice went on to talk about the family, including the latest antics of her children, five-year-old William and three-year-old Frances.

  As for the girl and her grandmother, Alice wrote in closing, that is a heartbreaking situation. No family is everything we want it to be. You must consider your decision long and hard, as I know you will, and be guided by your generous spirit.

  Easy to say, Kate thought as she folded the letter and slid it back into the ivory envelope, her sister’s initials engraved on the back. Not so easy to do.

  ∞

  The next morning, Kate knew what she needed to do.

  “I can walk to school by myself,” Grace said when Kate untied her apron.

  “I know you can. But I need to speak with Miss Lang.”

  Anne Lang was at her post when Kate, Grace, and Buster arrived, and if the woman’s shoulders stiffened at the sight of them, Kate could not blame her. Did she suspect Kate of pointing the finger, after the altercation in the cemetery? Kate wanted Anne to know that she had not accused Frank, and to assure her that Daniel Gibson was not her brother’s only friend in Jewel Bay.

  “Anne. May I have a word?” The other woman hesitated briefly before drawing Kate aside. “Deputy Gibson told us about the discovery of the second candlestick, and that there are those who believe it proves Frank killed Reverend Haugen. They are fools.”

  Anne gripped her elbows, tightened her lips, and waited.

  “I’ve told him everything that happened in the cemetery. How the farmer accused Frank of following me, mocking and taunting him when he had trouble replying. I made clear then, and again yesterday to Deputy Gibson, that Frank was blameless. That it was I who had startled him, when I came around the big tree at the top of the cemetery and found him—” Kate willed herself not to blush like a schoolgirl. “Well, there is no outhouse and sometimes a man can’t wait.”

  Anne’s lips twitched.

  “My mind’s been spinning ever since the deputy’s visit, and the more I’ve thought about it, the more convinced I am that Frank could not have killed Reverend Haugen.”

  “But how can we prove it? Henry Clyde is not the first man to spread rumors about my brother. Frank swears he was sitting by the river all afternoon the day Arval was killed, listening to the birds. He often does—birds have always fascinated him. But no one saw him,” Anne said, her voice breaking.

  “When we were walking down the hill in the cemetery,” Kate said, “I noticed how Frank has to set one leg as a brace, when the ground is uneven, then swing the other leg around. He holds out his arms to steady himself.” She demonstrated.

  “Yes,” Anne said. “The injury affected his balance. That’s one reason he can’t work a regular job, or a full shift.”

  And one reason why people feared him. His movements appeared menacing, but Kate had seen how they took every bit of his concentration.

  “Ivan Gregory was being generous,” Anne continued, “paying Frank to stack the wood. He and his nephew cut and split it—Frank can’t swing an axe that long. But stacking is work he can do, even with his damaged leg and his twisted shoulders.”

  “The reverend was hit and killed on the altar,” Kate said. The early bell rang. “Frank couldn’t have stepped up onto the altar without grabbing the altar table to steady himself, could he?”

  “No.”

  “And he couldn’t have grabbed the candlestick and hit the reverend. He’d have lost his balance, even before taking a swing. The reverend wasn’t old, and he was fit. He walked or bicycled everywhere. And he knew Frank’s infirmities.”

  “He knew Frank was no threat to him,” Anne said. “Have you told Daniel Gibson this? I am convinced he wants to believe Frank innocent, but it’s difficult. So many people are willing to believe Frank guilty just because he’s different.”

  “I’ll tell him. Let’s hope he’s willing to believe a young woman.” She hesitated, knowing they didn’t have much time for the other topic on her mind. “Anne, I’ve heard from Grace’s grandmother. As you predicted, her response bordered on the cruel. I wish I could ask you to take the girl—she admires you so. But I know you can’t. It wouldn’t be seemly, not with an unmarried man in the house. Especially not now, with all that’s happened.”

  “The second bell’s about to ring,” Anne said, stretching out a hand, not quite touching Kate’s arm. “My mentor in Pondera might be able to make a place for Grace, but I would hate to uproot her from her friends and school right now. Kate, are you sure you can’t keep her?” Then, without waiting for an answer, the teacher swept toward the students, hands in the air, calling out greetings.

  How could they keep her? They had no room in their tiny log refuge, and Kate was too young to mother a girl Grace’s age. But family, it seemed, though the thought broke every rule in Kate’s heart, was not always the best place for a child.

  As the children processed into the building, she saw Grace pair up with Elizabeth. What about the Petermans? Laura appeared to be an excellent mother and had a daughter Grace’s age, as well as a large house. But not if there were violence in the home.

  Back at their own house, she was surprised to find a basket at the front door. It was lined with a linen towel, beautifully embroidered, and held jars of apple jelly and strawberry jam, a brown paper packet of tea, and a box of French milled soap studded with lavender. A small ivory envelope bore her name.

  Inside, Kate refilled Buster’s water dish and sat to read the note.

  My dear Mrs. Murphy, it began. Thank you for your kindness toward my son, James, Jr., outside the school on Wednesday afternoon. What he lacks in drawing skill, he makes up for in imagination. His head is so filled with tal
es that I think he might well be our next Mr. Twain or Mr. Baum.

  Mr. Twain had been a favorite in the Flannery household, and they had all been saddened by his death last spring. Mr. Baum’s novels, they had not enjoyed so much.

  It was good of you to tolerate his antics, and as he is only seven, I trust you will not take him too seriously.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Laura Peterman

  Kate sat back. The dog had finished his drink and sat beside her. She stroked his head and peered into his deep brown eyes.

  “What do you think, Buster? She’s telling me not to be concerned. But why me? We’ve just met. Which makes me more concerned.”

  Adding a person to the household made more work, and Kate was busy all morning. She again spent the afternoon helping customers while Paddy made his rounds. Talk had turned back to the murder and to Frank Lang, with half the town convinced he was the killer and that Daniel Gibson knew it; his failure to make the arrest clearly meant he was a victim of Anne Lang’s charms; and what had Ivan Gregory been thinking, hiring a man like Frank, though some of the words used were far too unkind for Kate to repeat, even to herself. The other half would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that the poor soul was as innocent as a newborn lamb and thank goodness Daniel Gibson had a good heart as well as a good head. More than one wondered if Ivan Gregory himself didn’t warrant a second look. Why a prosperous man would have stolen the candlesticks and hidden them in woodpiles, no one could explain, but it must have had something to do, the theory went, with Gregory coveting land meant for higher purposes for his orchard. Or his fear that the reverend would beat him to the altar with Anne Lang.

  As if, Kate thought in disgust, that capable woman were a ball to be batted back and forth between men, her beloved brother nothing more than a hindrance.

  A shopkeeper, Paddy had told her more than once, must not let on that he thinks his customers full of blarney. When they came into the Mercantile, they expected to have their say. Let any argument come from other customers, he’d said. Talk was their sport. Let them have it.

  And so she did, keeping her head down and her tongue in her mouth, to use her mother’s phrase.

  Kate did not give lessons on Friday afternoons, so Grace was to walk down the hill with the postmaster’s daughter, a year older, after school. When she didn’t arrive, Kate took advantage of a quiet moment in the shop to dash across the street. The other girl had waited, then decided Grace must have left without her and walked down alone. It was perfectly safe, she said, casting her eyes sideways at her father. Busy with a customer, the man did not comment, but Kate understood the gesture. Until the killer was caught, or until Frank Lang was arrested, the opinion was that young girls were not safe on their own in this town.

  And no town could prosper under that cloud.

  But when Grace did not appear, Kate’s own fears grew. Paddy returned and listened to her fret, then replied in his reassuring way, “We’ll find her at the parsonage, as you did the other day, or back at the house, petting the dog, plumb forgetting she was meant to come to the shop.”

  But Grace was not a forgetful girl, or a disobedient one, and the knot in Kate’s stomach did not loosen. They climbed in the Model T and motored up the hill. Grace was not at the parsonage. She was not at home, and the dog could not tell them if she had been there. Her school satchel was not where she usually left it, with her other things.

  “Either she’s run off, or somethin’s happened to her,” Paddy said.

  That wise, practical Paddy would voice such fears made the knot tighten. If Grace had run off, she’d have come here first, knowing the house would be empty, to pack her little bag with clothing and her hairbrush and the photo of her mother, still on the side table where Kate had placed it.

  “We’ll take the automobile back down to the Mercantile and telephone Daniel Gibson.”

  “Let’s check one more place,” Kate pleaded.

  But the surprise on Laura Peterman’s face when she opened the door of the big white house overlooking the lake dashed Kate’s hopes. Grace had not gone home with her friend.

  Quickly, Kate explained their presence. Laura invited them in and called for her daughter. Elizabeth was tall for her age, taller than Kate, and though still girlish in build, promised to be both strong and elegant, like her mother. But she had not seen Grace since school let out. Had not seen what direction Grace had gone and had no idea where she might be. Kate sensed no deceit. Whatever Grace’s plans, she had not confided them to her friend.

  Kate sighed and glanced away from mother and daughter, wondering what to do next. The coin purse Kate had first seen in the Mercantile when Laura took it out to pay for the children’s candy lay on the marble-topped hall table. The monogram reminded her of the basket and note.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I nearly forgot to thank you for your gift. Did you embroider the towel yourself? I confess, the art has escaped me.”

  “I do enjoy needlework,” Laura said. “Creating a bit of beauty from something plain.”

  Though the note had been intended to tamp down any concerns Kate might have of violence in the household, it had kindled them. But she could not ask the woman if she were safe, even obliquely, in the girl’s presence, and not now, when more immediate matters pressed.

  “Mama embroidered the altar cloths for the church,” Elizabeth said. “Reverend Haugen called them the most beautiful handwork he’d seen, even better than his own wife’s.”

  “Hush, child. We’ll not boast in front of Mrs. Murphy,” Laura said. But the compliment clearly pleased her.

  Church work, then, had been one reason for the reverend’s visits. Had Laura confided her situation to the minister? Had he known she was in danger in her home? Had he helped her form a plan to leave her husband and take her children to safety? Had James found out, become enraged, confronted Reverend Haugen and killed him?

  Talk about imagination. And yet, it did happen, even in well-off families and gracious homes.

  Her gaze settled on the monogrammed purse. LLC, though Laura’s married name began with a P. Perhaps it had belonged to Laura’s mother or another older relative, passed down after death. Kate’s mother didn’t carry one, but that didn’t mean they weren’t fashionable for that generation as well. Surely there was some explanation.

  Her thoughts were disrupted by James Peterman, ushering Paddy through the front door. At the sound of their father’s arrival, the two younger children emerged from elsewhere in the house, and they joined Elizabeth in greeting him. No mistaking their happiness.

  Laura, too, had brightened. There was nothing fearful or guarded about the woman when she looked at her husband. No hesitation, only love and trust. Kate had been wrong. But that drawing, and the note . . .

  She felt Laura’s gaze on her and met it. It asked her—and she knew this; it was not imagination—to keep her secret. What was the secret? And why did it matter so much?

  In the meantime, they had to find Grace.

  “I’ll telephone Gibson and we’ll get up a search party,” James Peterman was saying as Laura instructed Elizabeth to take the younger children to the kitchen and keep them occupied. “He must have some idea where that band of scoundrels is holed up.”

  He was voicing Kate’s worst fear, that whoever had killed Reverend Haugen had come back for Grace. But who, and why?

  “I think . . .” Kate said, hesitating.

  “Out with it, lass,” Paddy said.

  “I think Grace may have heard us last night, talking about sending her to her grandmother. Then this morning, at the school, I talked with Anne Lang about finding a place for her. What if she overheard, or guessed that’s what we were discussing, and that’s why she’s run off?” Too upset to gather up her few things first.

  Laura gasped, and her husband slipped an arm around her.

  It was quickly decided that while James summoned Deputy Gibson, Paddy and Kate would make another search of the familiar places. Perhaps there
had been a misunderstanding. Perhaps Grace was fearful and hiding in the parsonage, or hungry, waiting in the Murphys’ kitchen.

  Not much of a plan. But what else could they do?

  As they drove, a whirlwind of thoughts whipped through Kate’s head. About Grace and her father. About James and Laura Peterman. Both husband and wife had consulted the reverend, who had also visited their home. Had Laura reached the same conclusion as Kate, after hearing him in the Mercantile with Paddy, that James had been involved in the reverend’s death?

  As they drove above the lakeshore, Kate frowned. “Paddy, that smoke down on the lakeshore. Is that the Indian encampment?” Grace had spoken more than once about visiting the Indians with her father.

  “Aye, lass. Ohhh.” He slowed and steered the Model T onto a trail so steep and rocky Kate found herself gripping the door as the wheels bounced and the automobile lurched from side to side.

  At a wide spot, Paddy stopped. “We’ll walk the rest of the way. Can you make it, lass, or should I be going down alone? It’s ankle-spraining ground.”

  “Paddy Murphy, you are not leaving me here. If there’s a chance Grace is with those Indians or they might know where she is, I don’t care if I sprain my head!”

  The trail narrowed, flattening as it reached the lakeshore. A man Paddy knew waited for them; no doubt he’d seen their headlamps. By the water’s edge, a campfire blazed. Kate squinted in the last bit of daylight, searching, searching . . .

  And there she was. A mix of relief and anger nearly overwhelmed Kate. She ran across the rocky shore and wrapped her arms around the girl.

  “Grace! We were so frightened.” Hands on the girl’s shoulders, Kate searched her face in the firelight. Clearly, Grace had been frightened, too.

  “Don’t send me back,” she pleaded. “Please. I’d rather be on my own, or be a servant, or anything but go where I’m not wanted.”